


a very good thing

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: A talented new freelance artist joins Trikru Studio over the summer, and senior producer Lexa Woods will spend six months from June to December doing everything in her power to maintain a professional, working relationship with brash and brazen (not to mention unquestionably attractive) Clarke Griffin.Things fall apart spectacularly, as you might imagine.
Relationships: Anya/Raven Reyes, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 150
Kudos: 950





	1. A summer storm, Boston. June.

The first time she meets Clarke Griffin, the weather is ominous and brooding. Dark clouds swarm outside the expanse of windows on the eighth floor of the newly rehabilitated Lovejoy Wharf building where staff have gathered for a meet-and-greet. Clarke’s reputation in digital and conceptual art precedes her, and Lexa’s boss, Anya, who is complimentary of virtually no one, let alone openly effusive, has not stopped talking about the new hire for over three weeks. She’s part of their latest collection of hires, a group of freelance artists and creatives who will work with Anya’s studio for anywhere from six to nine months during their busiest time of year. Projects bursting and everyone working around the clock. 

_“This is going to be a game-changer,” Anya tells her two weeks before the cocktail hour welcoming._

_It’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, and Lexa nods, not even glancing up from her computer screen. “I know.”_

_“We’re going to be able to take on more projects. Bigger projects. Better exposure.”_

_The grin works its way across her mouth, even as Lexa intently avoids catching Anya’s eye. It’s good news for the studio. It’s really good news for one of her oldest friends. “I know.”_

_“I don’t think you do, kid.”_

_This earns Lexa’s steely gaze. “I haven’t been a kid in ages."_

_Anya stands with an easy stretch and returns Lexa’s glower with a lazy smile. “Only a kid would oppose the notion of being called a kid.” By the time she’s reached the open doorway, Lexa has returned her focus to her work. “Hurry up with that so we can go drink.”_

_“I’m literally keeping your company afloat here.”_

_“Yeah, I know. Do it faster.”_

_Anya leaves her office by flicking off the light switch, and Lexs rolls her eyes, calling after her. “Which one of us is the child again?”_

Lexa stands in an unoccupied section of the executive suite and slowly swirls the ice in her glass, watching the new team members move about the open room with mild interest. 

According to a quick perusal of her online portfolio, Clarke previously hails from New York with a solid decade of experience in digital design that includes working with some of the biggest art studios in the city. Securing her nine-month contract with their modest Boston firm, as well as the other freelance designers and techs signing alongside her, is a boon to Anya’s growing credentials in the industry. The energy in the room is thrumming as the new team mingles with established staff. 

Lexa, however, is eager to go home. 

Although she loves her job, she detests work obligations disguised as social gatherings. She respects her colleagues immensely and admires Anya for many reasons, not least of which because she has served as friend and mentor for over a decade. But, Lexa prefers not to fraternize within the office. In her nearly ten years with the studio, in fact, she has attended as few employee gatherings as possible. 

On this particular occasion, her attendance had been nonnegotiable. 

They’ve never been in a position to contract this caliber of professionals, and Anya spared no expense in making them feel welcome—top shelf cocktails, catered hors d'oeuvres, and local craft beers float around the room as the new team of freelancers is introduced to existing staff. Most of their freelancers work remotely, but on this occasion, Anya specifically chose a team that would be willing to relocate to Boston, at least temporarily. Lexa is happy for her and the studio at large, if not also counting the minutes until she can make her exit and head home. 

As the new hires make their way around the executive office, Lexa sips her drink. She watches the storm and the twinkling lights of Zakim Bridge in the near distance, paying very little attention to the team individually. The storm holds her attention as she enjoys the smooth taste of her Japanese whiskey, which is much more posh than anything she’d keep stocked in her own apartment. If nothing else, she celebrates her current access to free fancy booze. 

The rain slants viciously against the dusky surface of the harbor and the thunder booms its warnings that echo through the dimly lit room. She thinks about the chore of waiting for a car in the pouring rain, about finally discarding her work attire for softer clothes, about falling into bed and drifting asleep to the sound of rain. 

And then, Anya is approaching with a young, sharply-dressed woman at her right arm. 

The weather could easily tell Lexa everything she needs to know about how a working relationship with Clarke Griffin might progress. A meteorological foreboding, so to speak: sudden, unpredictable, memorable. Except, nothing registers with Lexa at all. 

Because she is almost instantly blindsided by Clarke’s bright smile. 

Because Lexa has a particular weakness for the color blue, and Clarke’s eyes, when she grasps Lexa’s hand in a firm handshake, are like the bright, piercing hue of a clear sky after the storm. 

Because of all the potentially devastating traits to possess, it is Clarke’s unapologetic confidence that instantly bowls Lexa over with an unexpected thrill of attraction. 

“You’re Lexa. Production, right?” 

Clarke is not some brash egoist either—her swagger is subtle and understated, but palpable nonetheless. The rasped sound of her unmistakable confidence ruins Lexa’s own fortitude immediately, and she clutches to the condensation on her rocks glass to distract from her racing heartbeat. 

“I’m—yes. Producer. Uh, Lexa.” She clears her throat, wondering what in god's name has happened to her verbal synapses. “Lexa Woods, a member of the production team.” 

It’s hardly a complete introductory flop, but for Lexa, who has rarely failed to articulate her thoughts in all her twenty-nine years, it is mortifying. Clarke seems to find her fumble endearing, if her answering smile is any indication. The reaction does nothing to still Lexa’s flutter of nerves. 

“Well, I look forward to working with you, Producer Lexa. Anya speaks highly of you.”

That Anya is stood near them as well, to witness her brain’s apparent malfunction in the presence of Clarke, is additionally unfortunate. The look on her face—which to the untrained eye might appear as yawning indifference—to Lexa, sounds like: _what the fuck is wrong with you_. 

“No she doesn’t,” Lexa counters, eyes cutting briefly to Anya over Clarke’s shoulder, who merely arches a razor sharp eyebrow in response. 

The laughter that follows Lexa’s comment has her stomach twisting and her eyes back on Clarke in an instant to see the way it has brightened her smile. 

“No, actually, you’re right. She’s hardly mentioned you at all, and I can’t keep all these names straight anyway,” Clarke admits as she vaguely gestures to the large room, a smile so broad and pleasantly bright it could never be contrite. “Sorry, it just sounded like the nice thing to say to one of her most tenured employees.” 

Lexa, unequivocally beyond her consent, smiles in return. “I’m looking forward to working with you, too.”

And so, despite the slow rolling storm that has darkened the entire city landscape on that tumultuous June evening—Lexa no longer pays any mind, choosing instead to enjoy being in the immediate company of her new colleague. 


	2. Peace offering, Boston. July

Clarke Griffin, as it turns out, can be an insufferable creative visionary who wouldn’t see logic if it were actively gnawing off her right arm. 

She’s also exceptionally talented, kind, and charming, and Lexa’s personal feelings about this woman constantly warring against her professional exasperations has started to leave her agitated and on edge. 

No more than two weeks into their working relationship, Lexa has yet to develop a good approach to her conflicting perceptions, and thus struggles through her own duplicity with intense morning cardio along the Charles River (when she can find the time) and healthy pours of whiskey after harrowing days in the office (without exception). 

She’s always enjoyed her role within the company—steadily managing client accounts with her fellow producers and working amicably with the other creative departments to keep the studio thriving. Except now, she and Clarke have begun to regularly clash in meetings as they review potential projects or prepare for pitches, sat on opposite sides of the sleek, custom-made conference table that Anya bought after closing their first big account eight years ago. 

It is, Lexa can admit, a magnificent table over which to host heated arguments with her imaginative, bullheaded coworker. Clarke is an obstinate creative visionary, and Lexa’s seasoned work as a senior producer often puts them at odds. 

(Lexa would never admit that she actually finds these altercations invigorating, that she has, perhaps, over the years, craved such interactions—creative passion and unyielding vision clashing against her own perspectives—with someone like Clarke.) 

Being one of the newest staff members on board doesn’t seem to deter Clarke from brazenly speaking her mind or standing her ground either. Lexa quickly realizes this is why Anya had been so intent on securing her contract, even if on a temporary basis. On more than one occasion, Lexa has clocked her boss curbing the slant of her mouth, which threatens an actual smile, while the rest of the team members around the conference table studiously avoid direct eye contact with Lexa or Clarke during such altercations. 

Clarke’s determination is both frustrating and quite impressive to watch, and Lexa has begun to wonder if the quick paced thumping of her heart rate is caused by something other than strictly professional exasperation. 

She has just returned to her office on one particular Wednesday, attempting to organize an already orderly desk while adrenaline is still pumping through her veins. It’s a space she typically shares with another of their senior producers, currently out on maternity leave. In this moment, she is grateful for the solitude. Her debrief in Anya’s office after the meeting did nothing to resolve she and Clarke’s latest impasse, and thus she is forced to decompress on her own while Clarke is probably—

“Hey.” 

—standing at the door to her office. 

Lexa jerks her head towards the open doorway at the sound of a voice she would never admit to hearing in her head while falling asleep. 

Clarke’s tone is no longer some harsh, immovable force but something soft and scratched. Almost as if with that one word, she is imploring a treatise. It runs up the length of Lexa’s spine, releasing all its stubborn tension, and when she exhales, it sounds a bit shaky even to her own ears. 

Clarke is extending a small paper cup towards Lexa, marked with a familiar logo from the coffee shop on the first floor of their building. “You take it with almond milk, right?” 

Lexa blinks, having apparently lost her voice. 

“Look, I recognize things got a little heated in there, and I won’t apologize for that, but I will admit that I’ve … reconsidered some of my more salient demands.” 

Lexa’s breathing has shallowed—the shock of even a minor concession from Clarke is like a punch to her abdomen. Not to mention the sharp aroma of her favorite coffee that is slowly filling her office, and that Clarke had thought to bring it. Like an olive branch. 

“I’ve talked it over with Indra,” she continues, “and we can renegotiate some of the materials for this project to incorporate your ideas for the structure.” 

She walks farther into the room after a few beats when Lexa continues to stand there, effectively stunned into silence by Clarke’s casual demeanor. She doesn’t even wait for an invitation to enter—which ordinarily Lexa would have extended reflexively to any of her colleagues who arrived on her doorstep—she just walks easily towards Lexa’s desk and places the cup of coffee onto its surface. A thin wisp of steam escapes from the black plastic lid, disappearing into the air between them. 

When Clarke turns to face Lexa again, they are stood rather closer than Lexa had expected. She swallows harshly as Clarke looks at her with a hint of amusement flashing behind her eyes. “But, I’m getting my damn lighting.”

The arched eyebrow that follows does Lexa in, and she almost instinctively takes a step backwards to put some distance between herself and _that look_. 

The underwhelming eloquence of her response is staggering. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Clarke echoes, a genuine smile slowly spreading across her lips that Lexa has, regrettably, paid significant notice as her gaze slips downward. 

It is only after several belated minutes, once Clarke has breezed back out of the office, that Lexa realizes she hadn’t even said thank you for the coffee. 


	3. Sunset stroll, Esplanade. August

She doesn’t intend to watch a late summer sunset over the Charles River with Clarke, but that is precisely what happens. 

If she were the type of person who believes in serendipity, this encounter would definitely solidify the existence of fate’s role in her life. 

But, Lexa is far too pragmatic for that. 

“Lexa, hey!” 

Clarke sees her before she sees Clarke, and Lexa’s first thought is whether or not she would have worked up the nerve to say hello had Clarke not been the one to notice Lexa catching her breath, taking sips of water, and wiping sweat from her temples. She’s just finished a four-mile run down the Esplanade in the sweltering humidity of late August, but Clarke is composed and casual and effortlessly stunning, her hair swept off her neck and her smile radiant in the setting sun. 

“Hi,” Lexa answers as Clarke approaches. 

She’d only just managed to slow her breathing from all the physical exertion when Clarke encroaches her personal space and all the air in her lungs compresses again. She finds a sturdy white oak sapling at her back and leans against it. 

“I can’t believe you can run in this heat.” 

“Force of habit,” Lexa answers, sipping again at her water bottle to keep her mouth from running dry. 

“Can’t relate,” Clarke laughs, and Lexa is instantly parched again. 

Anya has never once enforced a dress code in the office, and people tend to fall within the spectrum of overly professional (Creative Director, Indra) and weekend casual (Junior Creative Technologist, Octavia). Some more eccentric than others, but everyone maintaining socially acceptable working attire. Essentially, this means that Lexa has never before seen Clarke in such a state of undress—cut-off bleached denim shorts and a faded purple tank top—having only ever spoken to her within the confines of the office. 

Which is to say, Lexa’s ability to process the sudden expanse of smooth summer skin on Clarke’s legs and arms is pathetic at best. 

“You don’t run?”

“Like, away from danger?” 

It’s Lexa’s turn to laugh, and Clarke seems to enjoy the effect, her own smile broadening as their eyes meet. “Point taken.” 

“Yeah, running’s not really my thing.”

 _What is your thing?_ Lexa immediately wants to ask, stopping herself only because she knows it will come off sounding inexcusably flirtatious. And, she’s not sure that’s a line she’s willing to cross just yet. 

She also feels wholly underprepared for this encounter, not least of which because she’s sweating buckets with the day’s makeup no doubt smudging around her eyes and her curls poofing wildly from the humidity. She doesn’t necessarily feel like her most attractive self, but she has enough self-awareness to admit that there are enticing elements to her current look: carved arms and fit legs, glistening in a sheen of perspiration. It would check certain boxes for plenty of people. 

More importantly, Lexa finds that she is endlessly curious about what _Clarke_ might find attractive. 

And so, if she carefully uses the soft cotton of her shirt to wipe at the beads of sweat on her neck just to see whether or not Clarke’s gaze falls to the exposed skin of her abdomen in the process (it does), then it is merely by coincidence. 

“Do you live around here?” Clarke asks, correcting herself a second later and shaking her head to look away. She’s visibly flustered in a way that Lexa has never witnessed. It makes the swooping in her stomach more than worth it. “Sorry, that’s probably invasive of me to ask. Forget it.” 

Lexa tugs on the ear buds draped around her neck and winds them around one of her hands. “I live in Somerville, but I like to run this park after work when I can.” 

“It’s gorgeous.” 

Lexa cranes her head, following the direction of Clarke’s gaze across the water’s surface, practically iridescent at this hour with glowing pink hues from the sun’s rays as it dips behind the dome of MIT in the distance. 

“Yeah.” 

As they take in the view, a silence lapses between them for so many minutes that Lexa fails to keep count—it’s simply calm and relaxed, the air decompressing as they fall quiet. It occurs to her then that Clarke could easily be meeting someone at the park, or on her way to see friends on a Friday summer evening, assuming she is as socially adept as she seems at work, or that she might be— 

“I don’t want to keep you. You’re probably—”

“Do you wanna walk for a bit?” At the invitation, Lexa’s eyes meet Clarke’s, unsure if her ears had been playing tricks. She looks genuinely inviting if not also a bit hopeful. 

The decision is made easy by the way Lexa’s heart leaps into her throat. In that moment, she can’t think of anything she’d like to do more.

“Sure.” 

As it turns out, Clarke does not hail from New York, actually. At least not originally. 

“Oh no, I’m a west coast girl. Just outside Sacramento for the most part, though my dad and I bounced around a bit when I was a kid—my younger years were pretty transient.”

Clarke doesn’t mention another parent, and Lexa doesn’t ask, though it’s a detail she tucks away for later. 

“So, New York is a more recent venture?”

“Close to seven years now, but yeah.” They walk down the manicured footpaths along the water, Clarke’s hands tucked into the pockets of her shorts as Lexa does her best not to trip over her own feet while walking beside her. “After art school, it seemed like the next logical step for me to advance my career. I love California, but I have to admit I was ready to see what all the fuss was about on the opposite coast.” 

“And, what do you think—is it worth all the hype?” 

“New York is … yeah, it’s amazing. It’s one of this country’s surreal, little anomalies. A complete spectacle. But, lovable. And communal, in a weird way, once you’ve been there long enough.” 

Lexa enjoys hearing Clarke talk. She doesn’t even feel the need to respond half the time, except for the purpose of encouraging more of Clarke’s musings. In the past thirty minutes, they’ve managed to skate over a number of enjoyable topics, and Lexa is genuinely surprised by an urge to keep their conversation going for much longer. 

She looks over at her with a lopsided grin just as the final embers of a blazing sun disappear behind the tree line. There is a part of her that wants to push just a little bit, to test a boundary between them that she isn’t even sure exists. Maybe it’s just residual adrenaline racing through her bloodstream. Maybe it’s the backdrop of glowing water and the reckless abandon that summer seems to breed. 

When Clarke looks over at her, Lexa asks, “And Boston?”

There is something in the way Clarke’s mouth slopes into a smile that does not appear entirely platonic. “Boston definitely has its perks, too.” 


	4. “She’s pretty,” Back Bay. September

The date is … fine. 

A week ago, she’d been excited for it. They’d been chatting consistently, and the conversations were always something Lexa looked forward to with some surprising level of excitement. Receiving the invitation for an actual dinner date hadn’t necessarily left her in jolted anticipation, but she was eager. 

Angela was a great conversationalist, for one: bright, sharp wit, well-travelled. Lexa could also admit a fair level of physical attraction based on her profile images. Online dating has always been total shit, but Lexa enjoys meeting new people, and if a chemistry sparks beyond good conversation or shared interests, then all the better. 

A week ago, she’d been legitimately excited to meet this woman and see how their connection might evolve in person, and then— 

—and then Clarke had breezed into her office that morning with a book they’d been discussing. 

(Because maybe Lexa has _also_ been making more time for conversations with Clarke outside of their working relationship, because maybe that casual stroll along the Charles had been a gateway to a friendship Lexa hadn’t been expecting. And, maybe she now has Clarke’s number saved in her phone, and maybe those texts between them when they’re no longer in the office are thrilling in a way that messages from other women never have been, but the point is—)

The point is, now she is sitting across from Angela, listening as intently as her wandering thoughts will allow, and thinking of Clarke’s book—the copy she’d held onto since her undergrad in LA, that has her scribbles in its margins and a date stamped in the front flap from when she’d purchased it at the campus bookstore. 

_“I hope the notes don’t bother you. I’m kind of a chronic annotator when I read. And, you’re not allowed to make fun of my astute observations—I was like twenty-one at the time.” Clarke is pointing an accusatory finger at her, and all Lexa can do is poorly fight a smile._

_“Oh, I won’t,” she manages to say, but not without smiling, knowing she will be completely distracted by the Clarke’s notes the entire time. Knowing further that she will be tempted to tease Clarke mercilessly as she discovers them. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”_

Lexa smiles at something her date has just commented on, willing her train of thought to remain in the present. The date is going too well for her to be so distracted. 

Their appetizers have just been cleared when Lexa notices a familiar face at the bar: Monty, who works in tech doing coding, and one of the freelance hires that started at the same time as Clarke. A nice guy, quiet but highly efficient at his job. When the angle shifts as he turns his body towards the bar, Lexa’s stomach plummets. 

Clarke’s bouncing blonde curls, grey dress, and animated gestures have Lexa inadvertently guzzling the last of her glass of wine. 

If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear Anya had something to do with this _coincidence_ as she has taken to teasing Lexa at great lengths about her recent walk with Clarke down the Esplanade (among other, unfounded accusations about their varied interactions). 

Clarke is at the bar, no more than a hundred yards away, Monty is entranced, Angela is blissfully unaware, and Lexa is panicked. 

“I need to use the restroom,” she announces, hoping it sounds less abrupt aloud than it had in her head. 

“Sure,” Angela smiles. She then motions to Lexa’s recently drained glass of chenin blanc. “Do you want me to order you another glass if the server comes back around?” 

“That’d be great. Thank you.” 

In the bathroom, Lexa stands in front of a full-length mirror, framed with thick planks of rustic wood. The lighting is overtly attractive and complimentary as she examines her outfit, smoothing her hands over the dark fabrics of her silken blouse and dress slacks. The shirt drapes her frame nicely, carving an inviting vee shape that shadows just above the slope of her breasts from where the shirt falls open at its soft lapels. She takes several deep breaths before moving to the sinks to run cold water over the pulse points of her wrists, hoping it will take some of the heat out of her cheeks. 

She really shouldn’t have chugged that wine. 

She’s feeling more collected and confident as she exits moments later, ready to refocus on her date and enjoy the company of a beautiful, charming woman.

But, the universe has a cruel sense of humor. 

“Oh, hey!” There’s a narrow, dimly lit corridor to the restrooms where Clarke now stands two feet in front of Lexa, looking even more devastating in close quarters than she had at a distance. 

Confidence effectively vanquished, Lexa swallows roughly and exhales. 

“Clarke, hey.”

“I saw you when you came in a bit ago with your—but I didn’t want to, I mean, I just assumed you’re with, um—”

“A date,” Lexa supplies, now suddenly very curious about what other things Clarke has assumed about her in recent months. “A first date, actually.”

Clarke’s smile looks something just shy of mischief, her eyes gleaming a deep blue in the low light as she quickly arches her brow. “Fun.” 

“Yeah,” Lexa smiles. 

“She’s pretty.”

Lexa doesn’t know what to say to that because Clarke is just standing there watching her with this lingering smile and looking so incredibly beautiful that Lexa can hardly take a breath. She’s halfway to complimenting Clarke’s appearance (the dress and heels are _a look_ , honestly), making a quip about how she looks pretty good herself, actually, when she thinks better of it and clears her throat. 

“Did I see Monty at the bar with you?” 

“Yeah, he and I have sort of become fast friends. He’s licking his wounds over a recent breakup with his boyfriend, actually, so I’m doing what any good friend would do and offering drinks therapy.” 

“Well done.” 

“Anyway, I should let you get back to—”

But, of course, Clarke would have to be the one to remind her of the lovely woman she’s now abandoned for close to five minutes, who is easily the best date she’s had all year. Except that every wonderful thing about Angela is currently being eclipsed by this small pocket of conversation with Clarke just outside a restaurant bathroom.

“Yeah, yeah. Right.” Lexa nods once or twice, not finding the muscle movement in her limbs to actually leave the corridor. 

“I’ll see you on Monday. Enjoy the rest of your weekend,” Clarke says, and then brushes by on her way to the restroom. 

The scent of Clarke’s subtle fragrance wafts past in the narrow space, and Lexa just barely manages to respond, “Thanks, you too.” 

Lexa takes her seat across from Angela with a cleansing breath, knowing that their first date will also be their last. 


	5. Changing leaves, Somerville. October

“How was lunch?”

Lexa shrugs out of her lightweight jacket and hangs it on one of the hooks behind the front door. The temperatures are beginning to shift from moderate to crisp, and even at high noon, the sun doesn’t feel as warm as it did a few weeks ago. 

“Fine.” 

Raven groans dramatically, tipping her head back into the couch’s armrest where she lounges in sweatpants and a faded alumni tee shirt from MIT. “Where is the Lexa of yore, who would date a string of incredibly brilliant, attractive women and return to our humble abode to regale me with her conquests?” 

Lexa’s face scrunches as she runs her fingers through her hair and collapses into a chair that faces her roommate’s reclining form. “Excuse me, but I think you know I have far too much respect for the women I meet to ever refer to them as conquests. Also, why are you speaking so oddly?” 

Raven jolts upright to a sitting position, folding her legs beneath her knees in a criss-cross fashion. “Oh my god, I cannot stop watching _The Crown_ , and I swear the royal dialect has seeped into my brain permanently. Shit is full on _crazy_ in twentieth century Britain!” 

“You’re a very bizarre person. You know that, right?” Lexa hops up from her seat then, heading for their kitchen. “Should we have a beer?” 

“It’s not even 2:00,” Raven calls after her. 

“I know, but I had one at lunch, and now I’m just—I don’t know, in the mood to have a little buzz on a Saturday afternoon. Plus there’s a game on in an hour. You in?” 

“Like I’m gonna say no.”

At the candid response, Lexa walks into the kitchen with a smile, returning a few minutes later with two cans of beer and a bowl of pretzel knots. 

“Didn’t you just eat lunch?” Raven comments at the bowl that Lexa places between them on the coffee table.

“Don’t you know I’m always hungry?” 

“Fair point.” Raven crunches into a pretzel and reaches for her beer. “So, that’s it? I get nothing else on this lunch date besides—” Raven shrugs, and then, in an insultingly poor imitation of Lexa’s voice, she mimics the word “— _fine_.” 

“That is not what I sound like.” 

“Lexa! Come on, dude.” 

Lexa shrugs again. “She had a weird laugh.” Raven rolls her eyes, but Lexa insists, “It was off-putting.” 

“You know, your life would be far less complicated if you stopped trying to date strangers off the internet, admitted your big, raging crush on your work wife, and asked her out.” 

“I do not have—”

“Lexa, I swear to science, if you try to sit here and tell me you are not harboring the most irrefutable crush on this woman.”

“—she’s not my _work wife_.” It’s a pathetic rebuttal, and more of a concession than she’s ever made in Clarke’s regard, but denying all evidence of a crush to someone like Raven would be fruitless. 

“You bicker constantly, even though you are physically incapable of not talking about her. You have her personal belongings strewn all over the apartment. And, you become really, fucking cranky when she hasn’t texted you back. You are totally married.” 

It’s a veritable onslaught of personal attacks that feel ten times more cringeworthy for their frightening accuracy. Clarke wore the softest looking sweater to work the other day, long and wooly and a perfect compliment to the fall colors that have burst from all the treetops near their office. It had been more than a little distracting during their joint creative review, Lexa’s mind drifting to its texture and how it might feel between her fingers. Even now, she feels preoccupied. 

Still, Lexa clings to her dignity. 

“It’s one book, Raven. On my nightstand. And, I don’t talk about her all the time.”

“Liar.” 

“Nor do I want to ask her out,” she mumbles uselessly. 

“No, you don’t want her to _turn you down_ —that’s an important distinction.” 

“She’s definitely straight,” Lexa argues feebly. 

“Uh, you’re definitely making a baseless assumption to protect your pride.”

Lexa scowls into another sip of beer and considers, not for the first time, finding a place of her own. One devoid of nosy, opinionated (begrudgingly well-meaning) roommates. 

“Can you please turn on ESPN?”

“Can you please stop making excuses and date your hot colleague?” 

Lexa snatches the television remote off the sofa cushion between them, flips off Raven’s smug expression, and attempts to drown out thoughts of Clarke with professional women’s basketball playoffs and good beer.


	6. First snow, Downtown Crossing. November

“Hey, Lexa! Can you hold it?”

Lexa has just boarded the elevator when she turns over her shoulder to see Clarke doing a sort of half jog towards the open doors. Lexa reaches out and props open the sliding doors until Clarke has boarded with a slightly out-of-breath _thanks_. 

“Long day for you too?”

It’s nearly 8:30 at night, and the sun set hours ago. The offices are often lively at this hour as projects drag on to meet deadlines and client meetings are held to accommodate varying time zones across the globe. On this particular night, Lexa finds herself alone with Clarke as the elevator begins its descent. 

“Brutal. I’m ready for a fucking drink,” Clarke nearly groans, her body pitching backwards until she is leant against the wood paneling of the lift’s interior. 

Lexa smiles over at her to share in the sentiment. “Same.” 

“Headed home?”

“Uh, not quite yet,” Lexa tells her. “I’m meeting Anya at Downtown Crossing for this—we kind of have this ridiculous tradition that started years ago and we’ve kept up for too long.” She doesn’t know why she’s giving Clarke this information except for the gnawing urge to tell Clarke every minute, mundane, and/or embarrassing detail about her life. 

An undeniable friendship has bloomed since August, and Lexa finds herself thinking of things to share with Clarke or innocuous ways to start conversations with her almost constantly. 

“I’m headed that way too. Do you wanna share a car? Or, were you—”

An unexpected opportunity to spend more time together has Lexa answering too quickly, “No, we should. That’d be—I mean, that makes sense.” 

Because the main entrance to their building butts up against the water, separated only by the wooden planks of the boardwalk, Clarke and Lexa must make their way to an adjoining hotel where their car should be waiting. The bite in the nighttime air is significant, and for a brief moment, under duress from the cold seeping under her collar, she imagines how she and Clarke might huddle together if they had just left a restaurant after dinner, arms linked for warmth. 

What would Clarke be like on a date? Funny. Flirtatious. _Inappropriate_ , certainly. Would she steal the food off of Lexa’s plate after refusing the taste Lexa had already offered? Would she charm the wait staff and delightfully peer pressure Lexa into ordering an extra cocktail with dessert? 

Lexa takes a deep breath, feeling the icy air fill her lungs and hoping it might also cause her overactively gay imagination to chill because fantacizing about dating Clarke while standing beside her is unnecessarily torturous. She is not dating Clarke. They are coworkers, and only coworkers, as it should be. Her teeth are left chattering against the sharp gusts of November wind as the visions fade. 

There could be snow, they’ve said, before the end of the week, and the temperatures seem to reinforce the predictions. Lexa focuses on the cold and suppresses and urge to move closer to Clarke as they hurry down the boardwalk. 

The car is blessedly awaiting them as they approach the hotel’s main entrance, and Lexa almost sighs in relief to be encapsulated in its warmth after closing the backseat door behind them. 

“So, ridiculous tradition, huh?” 

They’ve been silent for a few minutes while their driver creeps along with the city traffic, but Clarke now turns towards her with a curious smile, awaiting Lexa’s response. 

“Yeah,” Lexa answers, not really knowing how to explain a very small, insignificant thing without also detailing major plot points of her life. 

“So, you’re going to remain mysterious about this.” When Lexa exhales a laugh, Clarke bumps their knees together as if this gentle teasing will relieve a modicum of her nerves. “You don’t have to say—I’m only messing with you.”

Lexa dares a look in her direction, flashing lights playing across Clarke’s face as they drive past Haymarket and Faneuil Hall. “Yeah, I picked up on that. Sorry, it’s just … hard to explain.” 

“Lexa, really, I’m only kidding. You guys have known each other for a long time, right?” 

“Anya was my RA at Wellesley, yeah. She’s sort of played a major role in my life ever since.” 

As if on cue, Lexa checks an incoming message on her phone to see Anya’s name on the screen, having been alerted by a buzzing in her coat pocket. 

“Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Clarke’s voice is saturated in real concern, soft and urgent. 

“No, yeah, it’s fine.” Lexa sighs and returns the phone to her pocket after firing off a quick reply. “Something came up and Anya has to cancel.” 

“Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Lexa says, forcing a tired smile. “I just wish I’d known before heading downtown for no reason.” 

They fall silent again, nothing but the muted city sounds outside the car windows. Lexa tries not to let disappointment seep into her thoughts and wonders what sort of monetary favors she’d have to promise Raven in order to get her to give Lexa a ride back to their apartment. She’s reaching for her phone again when Clarke clears her throat. 

“Have you eaten?” 

“What?”

“Food? Sustenance? Common source of energy?” Clarke is smiling now. A teasing grin that Lexa finds very distracting. “Did you order anything to eat back at the office?” 

“Oh. Um, no.” Lexa’s empty stomach churns on command, an uncomfortable combination of nerves and hunger. “I’m starving, actually.” 

Clarke’s laughter confined to the cramped space of their shared backseat is actually a thousand times worse than hearing it under normal conditions. “Oh my god, me too. We could grab some food if you want? That way it’s not a totally wasted trip.” 

Lexa weakly contemplates the chances of turning down Clarke’s offer, heart hammering. She should just go home, forget about the notion of spending more time with her extremely likeable coworker, eat her leftovers, and put this whole day to bed. 

Except when she opens her mouth, the words, “How do you feel about falafel?” come tumbling out as if her brain has lost all communication with her mouth. 

The falafel shop is obscure, hidden away down a narrow street that is more like an alleyway. She and Clarke huddle inside the cramped establishment with the other patrons, munching on their proffered falafel sample from the proprietor while waiting to place their orders at the counter. When their numbers are called minutes later, they find a small table near the back that seems like it has maintained the most warmth despite the building’s high, drafty ceilings. 

Clarke is tucking into her plate of food, groaning effusively, _obscenely_ , if Lexa allows her mind to go there (she does, briefly), and going on about how a hidden gem has been within walking distance from her apartment for months. 

“See? Clearly we should have been hanging out ages ago,” she says. 

Lexa’s smile grows even as she bites into her pita, but Clarke watches her, waiting patiently for a response. She feels like they are playing a game that she doesn’t remember agreeing to. 

“I don’t really make a habit of doing that.” 

Clarke doesn’t even wait until she’s finished her next bite of food, holding a paper napkin over her mouth while asking, “You don’t do what?” 

“Make friends with people at work. I mean, I’m friendly,” Lexa clarifies. “I just don’t usually hang out with anyone outside of work.” 

“Except for Anya.” 

“Anya’s more like family in a lot of ways.” 

Clarke leans back in her seat, pinning Lexa with that same level of unapologetic confidence she remembers from their first meeting. “And, what about me?” 

Lexa can only buy herself so much time—the scrutiny of Clarke’s expectancy is bringing unavoidable heat to her cheeks. Despite the poor lighting, Clarke will _know_. She’ll know that she’s different, that Lexa thinks of her differently. 

“I guess that makes you the exception then.” 

:::

As they’re finishing up their plates of food, Lexa gets the sense that Clarke is holding something back. 

“What is it?” she finally asks, and Clarke seems surprised at her intuition. 

“I was just going to say that, you know, I’d be down to participate in some ridiculous, outdated tradition with you. Since Anya is unavailable. If you wanted.” 

“You don’t even know what you’re volunteering to do.”

Clarke’s confidence momentarily flickers as her eyes widen slightly. “Wait, you guys don’t, like, jump into the harbor in your underwear or something, do you?” 

“No,” Lexa laughs, pretending her face didn’t just heat up at Clarke mentioning her in her underwear. “You really have no idea how lame we can be, do you?” 

“Does this mean you’re going to let me in on the secret tradition?” 

The truth is, Lexa isn’t ready for the night to end. She’s worn and exhausted and, now that she

has a full stomach, she’s more than ready to collapse into a deep, sated sleep. But, there is an unravelling thread between her and Clarke now, and she can’t resist an impulse to tug it loose. 

Lexa throws a crumpled napkin onto her empty plate and sighs. “Okay, fine. But, I’m going to need you to significantly lower your expectations.” 

Clarke stands and reaches for Lexa’s tray, clearing it with her own before Lexa can react. She then fixes her with a look of fresh determination, arches one eyebrow, and tells her: “Impossible.” 

:::

The line for Dunkin’s is surprisingly still existent after 9:00 at night, but within minutes, she and Clarke are emerging from the brightly painted walls and fluorescent lighting back into the cold. 

The steam pours from their drinks to match their frozen breath, and Clarke wraps her hands around her paper cup for warmth. “I would not have guessed that Dunkin's coffee would meet your standards.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lexa asks, eyes narrowing in Clarke’s direction, nevertheless amused that Clarke has made assumptions about her. 

“Are you going to stand there in your fancy Barbour coat and cashmere scarf—” 

“Okay, the scarf was a gift.”

“—and try to convince me that you don’t have a preference for the finer things in life? Small batch distilleries, ethically-grown artisanal coffee beans, and imported leather boots?” 

At the exact moment that Lexa is poised to offer her retort (despite how accurate Clarke’s accusations had been), Clarke loses her footing on a small patch of ice, and Lexa’s hand slips around her bicep on instinct. It’s a miracle that neither of them lose their beverages in the process. As Lexa holds her steady while she rights herself on the pavement, she hears a distinct hitch in Clarke’s breathing while they are standing so closely. 

When she finds herself at a loss for what to say, like any well-adjusted gay in close contact with a beautiful woman, Lexa deflects to sarcasm. “Do they not have icy sidewalks in New York?” 

Clarke feigns offense very adorably, and then Lexa is reluctantly loosening her hold on Clarke’s arm. “Shut up—I just wore the wrong shoes.”

“See? Me and my fancy boots aren’t so pretentious now, are we?” 

“I never said _pretentious_.” Clarke dares a sip of her hot cocoa, eyelashes fluttering prettily over the white plastic of her drinks lid. 

“No, but it was implied.” Lexa carefully sips at her own beverage and it is just as synthetic and sugary as she remembers. “Anyway the fact that this isn’t sophisticated hot chocolate is the whole point. College Lexa was broke and unrefined. This drink was probably the highlight of my entire year.” 

“Lexa, that is … incredibly depressing.” 

Lexa doesn’t even think twice before shoving against Clarke’s shoulder, as if she hadn’t just lost her balance a moment ago. “You’re an ass.” 

They’re both laughing though, and Lexa has a hard time remembering why she hasn’t been making a concerted effort to hang out with Clarke more consistently before now. 

Perhaps because she knows she’s been forging more than a friendship with Clarke, explicitly. There is a weight to every look, an implication to every comment or quip, another unspoken element to their interactions. Lexa knows it, and she thinks that Clarke likely knows it too. 

“So, what now?” 

“This is, um, this is it.” Lexa vaguely shrugs and gestures to the street on which they’re standing. “Two dollar hot chocolate and Christmas lights. Ta-da.” 

“It’s perfect,” Clarke says. Lexa doesn’t even care if she’s lying to spare her feelings because it does actually feel pretty perfect for an unplanned, doomed-to-fail evening following an exhausting week of work. 

The colorful, twinkling lights that have been strung up across Summer Street hang above them like a canopy. There are red, white, and green snowflakes and bells, a flashing message of good cheer stretched across the street in front of Macy’s in some looping, antiquated typeface. Everything looks exactly as it had when Lexa had first arrived in Boston for undergrad over a decade ago. 

And then, the snow begins to fall. It is, actually, quite perfect. 

“I haven’t gone home for Christmas in a really long time.” The words just fall out, beyond her consent, and then hang there in the air between them like frozen clouds of honesty. 

Clarke watches her carefully as they stand beneath the lights, waiting for the pedestrian signal to change. The flakes of snow are big and fluffy, clinging to her long lashes and the curls that peek out from beneath her hat. 

“How many years is ‘a really long time?’” 

“I stopped spending Christmas with my family after my dad died, so … this year will be ten years?” 

She’s never talked about this with anyone other than Anya or Raven—certainly not with anyone she’s known less than nine months. Some strange comfort has crawled into Lexa’s bones, though, and she knows in that instant, inexplicably, unequivocally: Clarke is safe. 

The lights change and they are stepping off of the curb into the crosswalk before Clarke can respond, but not without Lexa noticing the deep breath she takes as they fall into step. 

“Lexa, I—”

“It’s okay. I grew up with my dad too, you know.” She takes a beat to look over at Clarke with a small smile. 

“I’m really sorry to hear about him.” 

“Thanks, Clarke. The point I’m trying to make is, I’ve never had much of a relationship with my mom. We have virtually nothing in common, and she and my dad divorced when I was pretty young. Spending the holidays with my family would mean stilted conversation with a mother I don’t really know and her terribly dull new husband, Frank.” Lexa takes a deep breath. “So, I’ve always stuck around here, even during college when the dorms would turn into ghost towns.” 

“Hence the birth of this fantastic tradition?” Clarke hedges. 

“If you should know anything about Anya, it’s that she’s obnoxiously perceptive. That first year I stayed in Boston over break, she strongarmed me into hot chocolate and Christmas lights, and then it just sort of stuck.” 

Clarke’s eyes widen slightly. “Now I feel like I’ve intruded on something sacred.” 

The light laughter that Lexa exhales balloons in her chest. “No, this has been really nice, actually.” 

“Well, I’m very honored to have been Anya’s understudy.” 

There’s already an element of magic to their evening—even if Lexa is only imagining it, even if it’s all a figment of her creative imagination. She can feel it. A buzzing. A charged atmosphere. Clarke’s smile and her proximity. The lights and the snow, the sweet drinks and the spontaneity of their entire evening.

“Honestly, this is all usually just a precursor for Anya and I finding the nearest bar to get properly smashed.” Lexa experiences a gust of nerves as she says it and wonders why it feels more terrifying to reveal this information to Clarke than it had been to talk about her dad. 

Clarke’s answering grin looks like a challenge when she says, “Oh.” 

They’ve paused under the brightly-lit awning of Macy’s where overplayed Christmas music is being piped into outdoor speakers. Lexa feels her hands perspire from within her soft, leather gloves and tries to remember a time in her life when she was actually very cool around beautiful women. 

“That would probably be a bad idea.” 

Clarke nods once or twice, eyes never leaving Lexa’s face. “Probably.”

“I should let you get home. This week has been hell. You must be exhausted.” 

“Wow, are you always this lame?”

“I’m—I’m not, I’m just—”

Honestly, _the most_ uncool she has ever been in her entire life, unfolding before her very eyes in a grand total of ninety seconds. 

“Lexa, I’m just kidding. This week kicked my ass. I actually cannot wait to get into bed and crash.” 

_Do not picture Clarke in bed. Do not picture Clarke in bed._

“Yeah, um. Yeah, me too.” 

Worse yet, in all of Lexa’s fumbling anxiety, Clarke steps into her space and pulls her into a completely unexpected hug. 

“Thanks for keeping me company for a bit.” 

“You too,” Lexa struggles to respond, her arm just barely making it around Clarke’s back before she is pulling back again. “I’ll see you Monday.”

At Clarke’s small wave and parting smile, Lexa turns to head back towards an intersection where she knows it’ll be easier for Raven to pick her up. But then, Clarke calls out and Lexa turns to face her. 

“Hey, we should do that sometime, you know.” 

Clarke is just standing there under the glowing lights, snow falling all around her, with a hand in her pocket and a smirk on her lips. Lexa thinks it would be very gratifying to kiss that look right off her face. 

Desperately, she tries to parse what Clarke is saying through the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. “We should do what?” 

“Find the nearest bar and get properly smashed sometime.” 

There’s no time for her to respond before Clarke pins her with a final, lingering look, her smile broadening at the stunned expression Lexa must be wearing, and then Clarke is spinning on the spot and walking away.


	7. Snowball fight, Boston. December

No sooner has she closed the door to Anya’s office than she is being pelted in the back with a dense puff of fake snow. 

“ _Ow_. Why are you throwing things at me?” Lexa turns with a scowl to find Anya draped carelessly on her sofa in an open blazer and pressed shirt, another snowball already in hand. 

“Because you’re an easy target.” 

“Your level of professionalism leaves something to be desired.” 

Actually, Anya’s laser focus on the success of her studio, on cultivating her unique brand in a white, male dominated market, is unshakable. 

But, you’d never know that by looking at her now. Cavalier, almost playful in her smug, taunting grin as Lexa finds a seat in a chair across from her. 

“I’m sending a car to pick you up at seven. Do not be late.” 

Lexa grinds her jaw and looks away. “I already told you: I’m not going.” 

“If you don’t show, you’re fired.” 

Lexa arches an eyebrow in rebuttal. “Fine.” 

“You’re being stroppy and childish.”

“You are literally sitting there throwing fake snowballs at me, but I’m the child?” 

Anya cracks a smile and examines the white ball of fluff in her hand. “I got them for my nieces, but I’m thinking of ordering a set for the office. Could make staff meetings far more entertaining.” 

“And, I’m not being intentionally juvenile. I just don’t like the forced socialization of these events. You know that I rarely attend the holiday parties—why should this year be any different?” 

“Do you mean to tell me there’s not even a small part of you that’s curious to know what Clarke Griffin looks like all dressed up in her most dazzling party threads?”

_Yes._

“No.” 

“You like her.” 

“We’re friends. Sort of.” 

“You’re a dreadful liar. I know you like her. _She_ knows you like her. The whole, fucking office knows it.” 

Panic spikes like a cold sweat. “She doesn’t—” 

“Trust me: she knows. I also know that your little falafel date two weeks ago is still haunting you, and you have absolutely no idea what your next move is.”

“How could she—how would you or anyone else even know that?” 

“You are about the most unsubtle person on the planet when you look at her, or talk to her, or talk _about_ her.” Anya tosses the snowball into the air, catching it again without even looking. “Let me put it this way: if she hasn’t noticed your extremely conspicuous crush on her, then she isn’t perceptive enough to be on my creative team, and I’ve made a huge mistake in offering her a full-time position.”

In the midst of her spiral of self-reflective anxiety over whether or not Clarke has known about her very non platonic feelings towards her for months, Lexa pauses to catch what Anya has just revealed. 

“Wait, you did what?” 

“I want her to stay on staff beyond her freelance contract.” Anya rolls her shoulders and twists her head from side-to-side to stretch her neck. Their workday is more or less over, and Anya’s schedule has been meetings from start to finish. “She’s going to cost me a fortune, but she’s a great addition to the studio. I like her work and her insight. I like _her_.” Anya resumes eye contact with a purposed tilt of her head. “See how easy that was?”

Lexa swallows. “What did she say?” 

“I told her to take the rest of the month to think about it.” 

A held breath leaves her lungs in a puff of air, and Lexa runs her fingers through her hair. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because you don’t think you deserve to have good things happen to you.” She lobs the other snowball across the office, and Lexa easily catches it against her chest. “And, I think you do.” 

:::

“Why would you bring me with you? The entire studio is going to think we’re together.”

Lexa pulls on her blazer—a kind of shimmering, metallic gold fabric—and buttons it over her dark silk camisole. With the blazer fastened, it gives the illusion of there not being a shirt underneath at all. She smooths her hands over the black lapels, adjusting the sleeves, and rolls her eyes at Raven’s reflection in the full length mirror. “No one is going to think we’re together.” 

“Turn around and look at me in this dress,” Raven demands. “You show up to this party with me on your arm, and people are absolutely going to assume I am your devastatingly attractive and brilliant fianceé.”

Lexa turns, as commanded, facing Raven with an amused smile. “Oh, we’re engaged now?” 

“Obviously if you were having sex with this,” she gestures to her black dress and heels with a flourish, “you would be begging me to marry you.” 

“Well, I’m not having sex with you, we aren’t getting married, and _no one_ is going to think we’re together.” 

“You’re really fucking useless when it comes to this shit—has anyone ever told you this before? Also, you look very hot in this gay-as-hell outfit.” 

Lexa clicks her tongue approvingly and drops her gaze to the slim cut pants and black boots. “Thank you.” 

Raven approaches, maneuvering Lexa to spin until they are standing side-by-side in the mirror. “Damn, Woods. We make a very attractive pair. But, I still think you should leave me at home.” 

“Raven.” Lexa says her name like a sigh, hoping their car arrives soon so that she is that much closer to alcohol. 

“Isn’t the whole point of you going to this thing to admit to Clarke that you want to, ya know, make the yuletide gay?”

“You really need to start ignoring everything that Anya tells you,” Lexa says as she heads for the living room. 

Raven stalks after her like an angry hornet that’s just been disturbed from its hive. “Anya doesn’t tell me anything. I don’t even _talk_ to Anya.”

“Sure you don’t,” Lexa smirks. Thank god the conversation has finally shifted away from Clarke.

“I don’t.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Lexa shrugs, slipping into her coat and checking her makeup one last time in the mirror by the front door. Her phone dings from the table where they keep their keys and gloves, and Lexa glances down to check the notification. “Car’s here.” 

“Thank god,” Raven groans, grabbing her own coat off its hook. “I need a drink.” 

::: 

She doesn’t see Clarke as they enter, and she doesn’t see Clarke when she and Raven order their first drinks at the open bar, but when she does see Clarke—lightly clutching a flute of something sparkly, laughing openly, and surrounded by four or five of their coworkers near the glass doors that overlook the water—it’s like a punch to her abdomen. 

Of course Clarke would be stunning and understated in her holiday attire, her mere presence leaving Lexa completely breathless from thirty yards away. The bartender sets down their drinks, and Lexa clinks her glass against Raven’s before taking a generous sip to lull herself into a false sense of calm. 

After twenty minutes, Lexa is already less unnerved as she and Raven huddle together with their drinks, making predictions about which of the staff are most likely to show their ass by the end of the night. 

“Kid with dark, floppy hair has untrained lightweight written all over him,” Raven assesses in a low mutter. 

“Who, Monty? Oh yeah, absolutely. He can’t be more than 22.” 

“Lexa, hey!” 

She turns to see another of the studio’s producers, Nyko, smiling at her and Raven as he waits for his drink with his elbows resting on the bar. 

“Hi, Nyko—how’s it going?” 

“It’s great to see you here.” He nods to Raven with a broad smile. “Did your girlfriend convince you not to be such a Scrooge this year?” 

Raven chokes on her drink as Lexa flusters her response, “My—what? I’m not—this is Raven, Nyko. My _roommate_.” 

“Oh! Oh—sorry. My bad.” 

“Perfectly understandable. An easy mistake,” Raven answers with so much self-satisfaction dripping from her tone, Lexa almost swats the back of her smug little head. She extends a hand and introduces herself properly. “Raven Reyes. Nice to meet you, Nyko.”

He takes her hand, still shaking his head. “I feel like such an ignorant hetero every time they mistake my husband for my brother.” 

Raven cackles and Lexa smiles, eyes doing a quick scan of the surrounding area. “Where is Lincoln anyway?” 

“Charming the catering staff, I’m sure, and most likely overtipping the servers.”

The bartender returns with Nyko’s drinks and he makes his exit with additional apologies, which Raven seems to thoroughly enjoy. 

“I’m not going to say _I told you so_ ,” she says to Lexa once he’s left with his drinks. “But, I just want you to know that silently, respectfully, I’m saying it in my head and celebrating the fact that I was right.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was _one_ person.” 

It is not one person. In fact, no less than six people within the next hour have made the same mistaken assumption, and Raven is actually so insufferable about her “victory” that Lexa no longer wishes to be in her company. 

Anya’s soiree is well underway, the employees of Studio Trikru libated and loose as the DJ ups the volume on the music and lowers the lights. Food is passed and drinks are mixed with practiced efficiency while Lexa’s coworkers decompress from a solid six months of completing intense projects and scrambling to meet deadlines. 

Lexa finds herself gravitating to the bar counter, feeling a sort of tethered safety to it’s matte surface, friendly waitstaff, and the sheer fact that she can socialize with her coworkers in short, if not genuinely friendly intervals. 

She’s just refreshed her cocktail, a bourbon twist on a negroni that the bartender suggested to much applause. Lexa finished her first and immediately ordered another, which she now sips while leaning against the counter’s edge. 

“So, I just met your girlfriend.” 

The distinct rasp of Clarke’s voice from over her shoulder has Lexa straightening her slackened posture and turning to find Clarke equally slouched against the bar, weight resting on an elbow while she watches Lexa with amusement. 

It’s only a silver, sparkly top (cropped and sleeveless and not at all weather appropriate for a December evening in New England, but still) and sleek, high-waisted black pants. But, coming face-to-face with Clarke and her outfit nevertheless leaves Lexa virtually speechless. 

“Clarke. Hi.”

“She seems like a handful. A really attractive, entertaining handful.” 

Lexa exhales a laugh and focuses on the dark cherry color of her drink. “She is all of those things, except she is not my girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, I sort of figured that out already,” Clarke laughs, snaring Lexa’s attention. 

“Really? You seem to be the only one clued in. What gave it away?” 

“Well, for one, she’s been heavily flirting with our boss for the past twenty minutes—receptively, or so it seems from where I’m standing.” 

Lexa follows the nod that Clarke has directed to a more secluded area of the wide open room. Anya and Raven are indeed enthralled with one another and looking for all intents like the building could come crashing down around them without their paying notice. 

“Yeah.” Lexa sips her drink and sighs. “I’m pretty sure they’ve been sleeping together for over a year now.”

Clarke stutters a response, struggling to swallow the sip she’d taken of what looks like sparkling rosé. “Are you shitting me?” 

Lexa enjoys the legitimate surprise on Clarke’s features, the way that, when she angles her head to get another look at Anya and Raven, Lexa can carefully examine her profile. 

“They must think I’m an idiot—like I wouldn’t pick up on the fact that my roommate is not-very-subtly carrying on an extended tryst with one of my oldest friends.” Lexa shrugs when Clarke returns her attention to their conversation. “But, for whatever reasons, they prefer I stay in the dark about it.”

“You’ve never approached either of them about it?”

“No. I tend to keep quiet, apart from the occasional, unchecked dig at their expense.” 

She and Clarke share a smile at her admission, and Lexa feels it shoot through her abdomen. Clarke is wearing heels, as she had been that night when their paths had crossed at the restaurant in Back Bay, placing them at the same height. Meaning when Lexa looks at her, smiles over at her, their eyes are locked along the same plane. 

“So, rumor has it you don’t usually attend these end of year holiday parties.” Clarke cocks an eyebrow over the rim of her glass as she sips her bubbles. “What’s up with that?” 

Unapologetically calling her out looks _very_ good on Clarke, and Lexa has to avert her eyes to bite her lip through a laugh. 

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve been to one of the studio’s holiday parties in years. I don’t know—it’s just not my thing.” 

She’s practically startled into spilling her drink when Clarke reaches out to tug at the hem of her blazer, running its metallic fabric through her fingers. “Oh, really? You just had this ridiculously stunning outfit lying around in your closet because this _isn’t your thing_?”

Lexa tries to laugh fully, but her reaction is constricted by the tense muscles in her stomach from Clarke’s proximity, the way her fingers had almost grazed Lexa’s hip when she reached for the corner of her jacket. 

Clarke finally releases her light hold on the fabric with a cheeky smirk, and Lexa’s breathing attempts to regulate again until Clarke adds, “Either way, it looks really good on you.” 

There is an effusive compliment stuck on her tongue that Lexa, in all of her gay panic cannot seem to verbalize. Clarke looks amazing—she always looks amazing in whatever she’s wearing, and Lexa wishes that just once she’d be able to harness a modicum of functionality in Clarke’s company. 

In the end, she ends up staring at her uselessly for a few, weighted seconds before returning to the courage in her cup and taking a larger than necessary gulp. 

“You look nice, too.” 

“Thanks,” Clarke smiles, and for the first time all night, Lexa wishes for an encounter at the bar to last longer than a few, fleeting minutes. “So, I have a confession.” 

Clarke has pinched her lips together, suppressing what looks like a bashful smile. Lexa’s heart hammers a steady rhythm that is somehow louder than the music. They have angled towards one another, their own little pocket of the bar that gives Lexa an illusion of privacy despite being surrounded by people in a large, crowded room. 

“Let’s hear it,” she answers, not at all sure she’s prepared to actually hear Clarke confess anything. 

“Seeing Raven interact with Anya wasn’t how I figured out you two aren’t together.” 

“What tipped you off? Because you are apparently the only person in this entire studio who figured it out.” 

There is a slight pause in which Clarke opens her mouth before deciding if she’s ready to speak. Lexa holds her breath. “I don’t think you would look at me like that if you had a girlfriend.”

The party around them is like a muted din in Lexa’s ears, indistinct and muffled by the pounding of her own heartbeat and shallow breathing. 

“How do I look at you?”

Clarke licks her lips. “Like you’re trying to figure out how to kiss me.”

And just like that, Lexa knows exactly how her night is going to end. There’s no turning back now. 

In a rush, she asks, “Have you been to the rooftop yet?” 

“No, not yet. I think Monty had drunken plans to drag me up there once I refilled my drink.” 

“Oh.”

“I’d actually prefer to see it with you,” Clarke is quick to add. 

If she could siphon even a fraction of the confidence that Clarke carries around in her back pocket, Lexa might be able to conjure a response that sounds better than, “Let me get you a drink.” 

Despite a complete lack of poise and aplomb, her offer produces a smile when Clarke says, “Thanks,” and slides her empty glass across the counter towards Lexa. 

She turns towards the bar to grab one of the bartenders’ attentions and can feel Clarke’s gaze as she stands beside her, eyes skating over Lexa’s features without apology. Heat crawls up her neck and reddens the tips of her ears and, despite the wintry temperatures they’re sure to find on the rooftop, Lexa is suddenly too warm and craves a gust of cold air on her skin. 

A moment later, she hands over Clarke’s fresh drink, their fingers brushing as she asks, “Should we go up?” 

Clarke nods without hesitation. “Yeah.” 

:::

Studio Trikru takes up a portion of the eighth floor of a fifteen-floor building in Lovejoy Wharf, while most of the other floors are occupied by larger corporations. But, the top floor serves as an event space and includes access to a rooftop patio and garden. In the warmer months, there are barbeques and community garden beds, but tonight it is a winter wonderland. Twinkling string lights have been woven into giant globes that hang above the rows of dark green arborvitae. Heat lamps have been placed inconspicuously around the perimeter of seating areas and the stone slabs of the patio to keep out the winter chill. 

The city sounds hardly infiltrate at this height, but they have a clear view of the water and the lights on the bridge and the glowing green of TD Garden. The atmosphere feels cozy and magical, despite the exposure to the elements. 

Still, Clarke must be freezing. 

“We should have grabbed our coats,” Lexa says. Her own teeth feel on the verge of chattering, but it’s hard to say if it is from the cold air or the nervous energy ricocheting through her veins. 

“No, it’s good,” Clarke assures her, leading them closer to one of the standing heat lamps. “I sort of knew what I was getting into showing up to a holiday party in Massachusetts in basically half a shirt.” 

They are both laughing as Lexa takes a seat beside where Clarke has found a cushioned bench in a quiet corner of the patio where no one else seems to have braved the cold. 

“I’m not sure my opinion matters, but I think you made the right decision.” 

“Your opinion definitely matters.” 

When Clarke holds her gaze steady, it feels like being granted permission. Lexa bolsters her resolve and decides they have avoided this long enough. She swallows down her nerves and turns to face Clarke, resting her arm along the bench as if to bridge the gap that still exists between them. 

“Hypothetically, if I _were_ trying to figure out a way to k—”

This time when Clarke reaches out for her, it is to grasp at the lapel of her blazer. She pulls Lexa closer with a soft tug so that when their lips meet, it feels like a gentle collision. Lexa releases a short breath through her nose at the same moment that Clarke angles for a deeper kiss, but just when Lexa is feeling like she’s found her rhythm, Clarke is pulling away. 

She releases the hold she’d had on Lexa’s jacket only to run the pad of her thumb beneath Lexa’s bottom lip, no doubt where their lipstick has smudged together. “Does that clear things up for you?” 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” Even to her own ears, Lexa can hear that her admission is breathless. 

“You should have.” Clarke hasn’t really moved away, and Lexa feels pulled into the color of her eyes under all the glowy lights, the shape of her mouth as it curves into a smile. 

“I didn’t know if you were—if you’d be okay with that.” 

“I didn’t think I was being very subtle,” Clarke laughs. 

Lexa thinks about the past six months, all the varied interactions she and Clarke have had—the teasing and jokes, the heated office exchanges, the delightfully random encounters, and the crackling tension throughout it all. 

She shakes her head with a laugh. “No, I’m just an idiot.” 

“Well, here’s to you not being an idiot any longer.” 

Their laughter mingles while Clarke clinks her glass against Lexa’s. After taking a small sip, Lexa reaches out to place her cocktail glass onto a nearby table. She hesitates only briefly before taking the champagne flute from Clarke’s hand as well and placing it beside her own glass. 

“I’m probably still going to be an idiot from time to time. Full disclosure.” 

Clarke is smiling brightly and nodding even as Lexa moves in closer, sliding a hand around the back of Clarke’s neck. “Noted.” 

The word lands like a soft breath against her lips, but then the urgent press of Clarke’s mouth has erased all of Lexa’s coherent thoughts. 

“I’m probably still going to fight you on projects when our creative visions don't align, by the way,” Clarke tells her as they break apart to catch a breath. 

Lexa smiles against her lips. “I would be disappointed with anything less.” 

“Okay good.” 

The next kiss, and Lexa hopes from now on that there will always be a next kiss, is slower and stronger and surer. A mutual agreement. 

She can’t get close enough, not nearly as close as her entire body is currently urging, a thrumming arousal that Clarke has ignited low in her belly.

This bench and this sparkling outdoor garden are a temporary fix to what Lexa really wants to be doing. A microcosm of her intentions and desires. When Clarke’s hand makes its way onto her leg, sliding upwards, Lexa grabs a hold of it with her own and breaks their kiss. 

“Did you have plans to close out this party with the rest of our drunken coworkers, or would you be open to leaving insultingly early?” 

It’s the closest she’s come to having any sort of game with Clarke since the day they met, and even Clarke cannot hide her mild surprise. 

“If I were given a good enough incentive, I think I could be convinced to leave.”

Nothing, absolutely nothing in Lexa’s life is as thrilling as the banter she shares with Clarke. Something about the brazen challenge in Clarke’s tone steels her, and Lexa guides her off the bench so that they can stand face to face. 

Her hands slip around Clarke’s waist, fingers sliding along that thin stripe of skin that she’s been ogling all night. And then she says, “I’d like to do several things to you that would require us to be indoors, preferably, and not within earshot of anyone we work with.” She arches an eyebrow. “Is that incentive enough for you?”

Clarke’s throat bobs harshly and her eyes darken so quickly that Lexa can no longer see their familiar shade of blue. “Let me—” she has to clear her throat, eyes never leaving Lexa’s mouth, which is distinctly gratifying. “Let me just grab my coat.” 

Lexa has so much adrenaline coursing through her by the time they’re back inside the building that she’s practically out of breath. Clarke wraps a hand loosely around her wrist and whispers into her ear, “I’ll meet you by the elevators.”

They part ways before entering the event space—dance music and her increasingly inebriated coworkers have combined for an impromptu dance party, but Lexa makes a beeline for Raven. She is, to no one’s surprise, still with Anya, the two of them likely banking on everyone getting too drunk to question why Lexa’s girlfriend has commandeered all of their boss’s undivided attention for hours. 

“I’m leaving,” Lexa announces before either of them have acknowledged her presence. 

Raven looks momentarily put out, but Anya strategically begins scanning the room. Not finding Clarke anywhere in the vicinity, she wordlessly interrogates Lexa with the subtle tic of an eyebrow. 

“And, I won’t be going back to the apartment tonight.” 

“Oh my _god_.” Raven’s entire countenance transforms as a lecherous grin spreads across her bright red lips. 

“By the looks of it, neither are you.” 

Anya doesn’t deem a response, merely giving Lexa the courtesy of a controlled smirk before looking away. 

But, Raven scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Okay, you can fuck off now.” 

“Oh, I plan to,” Lexa grins and turns to leave them without so much as a goodnight. 

::: 

Sharing a car with Clarke for only the second time is a wildly different experience than the ride they’d shared to Downtown Crossing some ten days ago. Lexa doesn’t pretend to keep her distance this time, and Clarke seems to welcome the contact. When she slides into the backseat, she presses against Clarke from hip to knee and a hand easily slots between Clarke’s legs, resting firmly just above a kneecap. 

When their eyes meet in the half dark, Lexa can feel the atmosphere condense with anticipation. These few precious moments that exist between what has already transpired between them and the promise of things to come. 

“Be honest,” Clarke says lowly, her voice pitched at such a register that Lexa almost immediately starts kissing her again. She refrains if only out of curiosity for what Clarke is about to ask of her. “Did you break tradition and attend Trikru’s holiday party this year because you thought you’d end up getting lucky and taking me home?” 

Lexa laughs and looks away. 

“Technically, you’re taking _me_ home.” 

Clarke pokes her in the ribs. “Don’t be avoidant, Woods.” 

“It may have crossed my mind. Possibly.” Her response only brightens Clarke’s smile. “Okay, your turn.” 

“Oh, I absolutely planned on taking you home.” 

Once her laughter settles, Lexa's eyes fall to Clarke’s lips as she exhales. “Why didn’t we start doing this months ago?” 

“I have no idea.” Clarke leans in, ghosts her lips beneath Lexa’s ear, and sends shivers down the back of her neck. “But, I think we should start making up for lost time.” 

:::

They do make up for lost time. Comprehensively. Clarke stands by her intentions and _more_ than makes up for the weeks and months they let slip by without expressing how they were feeling. 

Friday night turns into an extremely late Saturday morning which leads to brunch on Sunday and another night in Clarke’s apartment exploring the acoustics. Almost seamlessly they slip into spending more time together than apart—both clothed and unclothed in equal measure. By New Years, Lexa has had more sex in the preceding two weeks than she’s had all year. 

After four weeks, Clarke accepts Anya’s offer and comes on staff full time at Trikru, giving up her apartment in New York and committing to a more permanent stay in Boston. Lexa shows up on her doorstep with celebratory champagne that is way outside her budget, but the look on Clarke’s face when she takes her first sip is worth it. 

“This is good,” Lexa says some time later when they’ve almost finished the bottle and Clarke is scrolling through food apps to find them something for dinner because she’s decided she’d rather stay in. 

“The champagne? It was fucking amazing.” 

“Not that. This thing we’re doing,” Lexa clarifies, which grabs Clarke’s attention away from her phone. “It’s really good.” 

They’re sat closely on Clarke’s sofa, and Lexa had arrived sort of dressed for a night out, intending to treat Clarke for a celebratory dinner. But, Clarke is still in an old, faded sweatshirt and stretchy grey leggings, her ponytail floppy and her cheeks rosy from the wine. Her smile is dopey when she leans in, and her lips and tongue have been sweetened by the wine. When she pulls back, Lexa blinks her eyes slowly and sees a deeper blush on Clarke’s face than a moment before. 

“It’s a very good thing,” she tells her.

Lexa kisses her again, and that too, is a very good thing. 

::: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, fam! 
> 
> There is an unspoken rule of fandom in which fic writers are entitled to coerce, bully, beg, and plead their fellow writers to continue producing content, and my buddy Orange has always been that dedicated enabler for me. I'm so glad I was able to pull this together for the fandom in time for holidays, and it never would have happened without that delightfully Salty Citrus. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this holiday treat as much as I have enjoyed writing it :) 
> 
> Forever indebted to your support,  
> Mopey


	8. and another thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally intend to write more for this story, but it just wouldn't let me go. What was meant to be an additional few thousand words exploring more of their budding relationship morphed into almost 10,000 words in the span of a few weeks. Oops! 
> 
> This new (and final, I swear this time) chapter takes place during the weekend after the Trikru holiday party and follows through the next few weeks, filling in some gaps of those first few days that I thought would be fun to explore.

Lexa wakes on Sunday, and for a brief moment forgets where she had fallen asleep, before a wave of vivid sensations washes over her, and a smile creeps along her lips. 

She is still taking in the unfamiliar details of Clarke’s bedroom, cataloguing its intricacies in the greying light of early morning, when Clarke shifts—languid stretch, scowling consternation, slow blinks—and opens her eyes. 

“You’re still here,” she notes, her smile sleepy and voice scratched. “You must be really obsessed with me.” 

Lexa laughs softly across the small expanse of mattress between them. Her vision is skewed by lying on her side, one eye impeded by the pillow. Even distorted in this way, Clarke is beautiful. 

“I got the distinct impression last night that you wanted me to stay.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

On cue, Lexa’s mind replays the fresh memories and distinct sounds of their previous hours—cries of pleasure and grasping hands, Clarke’s urgent pleadings for more and Lexa’s immediate assent. Her stomach plummets even now to recall the absence of their mutual inhibitions. A second, consecutive night of passionate exploration and deep, sated sleep side-by-side. 

“Yeah.” 

Clarke seems dissatisfied with her reticence and smiles brighter as she prompts, “Such as?” 

Lexa licks her lips and fights a growing smile. There’s enough space between them that their limbs aren’t currently touching, but close enough that Lexa could reach out, graze Clarke’s skin with the backs of her fingers or tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear. If she wanted to. The notion, the possibility of such contact, buzzes along her skin. 

“You want me to check off a detailed list of indications that you desperately wanted to keep me here until morning?” 

“Oh, there was _desperation_ now?” Clarke laughs.

Lexa swallows thickly, palms aching for touch. “At times.” 

“Maybe I just wanted to keep you around so I could benefit from more of your impeccable coffee brewing skills.” 

Remembering when they had awoken after the holiday party the previous morning, or rather, an hour closer to noontime than anything that could be classified as _morning_ —when Clarke had burned their toast and Lexa had eaten it anyway; when they lost track of food all together in lieu of slipping hands under tee shirts on the sofa; when Clarke gasped into her neck; when Lexa’s eyes clenched tightly as her hands wove into Clarke’s hair; when their touches momentarily subsided and Lexa had offered to make the coffee, Clarke needling and teasing at her concentrated precision but then moaning her apologies after the first sip. At this and more, Lexa feels a jump in her gut. 

“Is that all? Coffee is my only valuable asset?” 

“No,” Clarke says, her tone low and calculated as she inches towards Lexa in these gradual shifts, building unnecessary suspense until her legs are sliding against Lexa’s own. “Not even a little bit.” 

Even a chaste kiss is no small reminder that Clarke’s lips are soft and warm and pliant. Lexa’s eyes fall closed even as Clarke pulls away with a hum and traces an index finger across the plume of her top lip. “The coffee was really good though.” 

A flex in her stomach muscles has Lexa’s breath catching as Clarke lightly scratches her nails up Lexa’s ribcage. She hardly suppresses a tremor in her voice. “Do you want me to make some more?” 

“No.”

“Kicking me out then?”

“Not at the moment, no.” 

Lexa shifts so that they are more latched together, an entanglement of legs and increasingly labored breathing. A strain on her lungs not yet brought about by exertion, but the anticipation of it. The space between them vanishes with the press of so much warm skin. “You have other plans?” 

Clarke hums that same deviant grin that has, twice now, bedded Lexa spectacularly. “You could say that.” 

:::

Lexa’s entire body has that loose and languid feel of having just had an hour’s worth of morning sex with a significant crush. It was indulgent and unrushed—two people luxuriating in too much time and nowhere to go. Everything in Lexa’s vision is soft around its edges, like smudged charcoal. 

She and Clarke bump around each other in the narrow galley kitchen in their baggy tee shirts and bare legs, sharing sloping smiles and brushes of contact. Lexa prepares their coffee as she had the morning prior while Clarke grabs mugs out of a cabinet and opens the fridge. 

Offhandedly, she says, “Oh, there’s almond milk, by the way.” 

Lexa’s hands pause mid-task, and she peers over her shoulder to see Clarke bent into the fridge. She fights a laugh at Clarke’s phrasing—as if the almond milk had just appeared, unprompted, into the door of her fridge. As if Clarke herself is not directly responsible for the gesture. 

“You’re shopping to accommodate my dietary preferences now? Wow, you must be really obsessed with me.” 

The parroted taunt has Clarke laughing as she stands back to full height, a full three inches shorter than Lexa in their bare feet. She has a pint of cream in one hand and an opaque bottle of almond milk in the other as she turns towards the counter where Lexa is prepping the coffee maker. 

“I was grabbing a few things from the store yesterday anyway,” Clarke shrugs, a poor deflection from the slightly rosy tint on her cheeks. “And, then you texted me while I was in the dairy aisle.”

Lexa, having very little chill on Saturday afternoon after having spent all of Friday night and well into the early morning hours of Saturday experiencing a collection of firsts with Clarke, is pleased to discover that the follow-up message she had sent (after much deliberation) has worked out in her favor. 

“Thanks.” Lexa’s smile is genuine, all teasing dissipated from her tone as she leans down and gently presses her grin against Clarke’s warmed cheek. “For thinking of me.” 

“You’re welcome,” Clarke responds, looking as timid as Lexa has ever seen her. 

As the coffee percolates, Lexa decides the most productive way to pass the time is to corner Clarke against the counter’s edge and kiss her soft and slow. Even before Clarke sighs into her mouth, it is the best decision she’s made in at least twenty minutes. 

:::

“Did you leave most of your things in New York?” 

Clarke’s apartment is a compact space but fairly spartan, giving it the illusion of being roomier than its actual square footage. Not to mention, there is a certain lack of eccentric flare, Clarke’s personal touches, that Lexa had expected her home to include. She doesn’t stop to question exactly when their friendship evolved to the point where she started considering Clarke’s personal aesthetics, instead chalking it up to the nature of their employment at a design studio and their relatively close, working relationship. 

“Almost everything,” Clarke replies after a sip of steaming coffee. 

They’ve both cuddled into their own corners of the sofa, Lexa’s long legs folded up beneath her while Clarke sits cross-legged at the other end. When a morning chill crept into the apartment, Clarke had scurried into the bedroom in search of joggers and sweatpants for them both. Lexa’s ankles peek out considerably, but she is significantly warmer in Clarke’s light grey sweats. 

“When I got the contract with Trikru,” she continues, “contingent on a temporary move to Boston, I essentially dropped everything. I quickly sublet my apartment in New York to an applicant I hoped wasn’t a sociopath and picked the first moderately-affordable, furnished apartment I could find.” Clarke points to a gaudy, abstract print that hangs on the wall above them and scrunches her nose. “Not exactly my vibe, but the hot water never runs out, it’s close the park, and I recently discovered the most insanely good falafel shop down the street.” 

Lexa bites back a grin while bringing her coffee mug to her lips, feeling both justified that she had correctly guessed the apartment’s decor was not entirely to Clarke’s tastes and a surge of giddy excitement at the mention of their recent meal in Downtown Crossing. 

“Have you been back?” 

“I don’t get embarrassed, generally, which you’ve probably gathered. But, I’m legitimately a little embarrassed to tell you just _how many_ times I’ve eaten there in the past two weeks.” 

Their laughter mingles in the most pleasant way. “No judgement.” 

Lexa wants to ask other things. Like if Clarke still sees Boston as temporary, or— 

_Has she further considered Anya’s offer to uproot her life in New York and work for Trikru full time?_

_What would her apartment look like if she had done the decorating?_

_Would she would let Lexa show her more of her favorite dining in the city?_

_Could they could spend more weekends just like this? Indefinitely?_

But, it’s Sunday morning and a very pretty girl is smiling at her down the length of a sofa while the smell of coffee fills the air. And so, through a haze of contentment, Lexa instead asks, “Do you want to get some brunch?” 

Clarke’s eyes widen comically over the rim of her coffee mug. “I _love_ brunch.” 

:::

“I need to grab a shower before we go, but do you want to jump in there first?” 

Clarke stands in the doorway to the bathroom, which is tucked away in the bedroom where Lexa has been gathering her clothes from the night before. When she looks up, Clarke is propped against the doorframe in just her tee shirt and light blue boxer briefs, a towel slung over her shoulder and hair a tousled mess. Like a vision straight out of the fantasies Lexa would deny she’s possessed prior this weekend, Clarke stands there, daring her not to ogle. It takes Lexa a full seven seconds to remember how to speak, and even then, her response is less than articulate. 

“I’m actually—the place I was planning, um, for brunch—it’s, uh, close to my apartment.” She swallows, willing her brain to function despite the circumstances: the legs, the slouched shirt baring one shoulder, and the unbidden image of Clarke beneath a steaming shower spray. “I thought I might shower there and get some fresh clothes before we eat.” She hoists up her crumpled shirt and jeans as if to illustrate the suggestion, and Clarke smiles in a way that Lexa can feel shooting straight through her abdomen. 

“Perfect. I’ll just be a minute.” 

With that, she vanishes behind a closed door, and Lexa gulps for air, slumped against the foot of the unmade bed. 

:::

“So, look.” Lexa begins threading her fingers between Clarke’s as she speaks, an act of intimacy that somehow feels bolder, more novel in daylight hours. Clarke reciprocates in the best way, angling towards her in the backseat of the car they’d ordered, bringing them closer together. “I know you’ve already met Raven, maybe briefly and slightly intoxicated, but there’s a good chance she’ll be at the apartment when we get there, and she can be—”

“Lexa,” the warmth in Clarke’s voice is so affectionate, Lexa’s whole body tingles. “I’m not easily intimidated. You know that.” 

“Oh, I know. I was going to say, she can be unapologetically invasive.”

Clarke smiles and snuggles in closer, bringing their joined hands into her lap. “I’m an open book. I’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah,” Lexa exhales. “It’s not really you I was worried about.” 

“I’ll protect you from your scary roommate,” Clarke laughs, resting her head onto Lexa’s shoulder so that it is a natural tilt of Lexa’s head to rest atop Clarke’s. 

Lexa’s apartment door opens into a cramped entryway off the kitchen, which is precisely where they find Raven upon entering. She isn’t yet dressed for the day but wears an apron over her pajamas while listening to a podcast and tending to the food cooking on the stovetop. The countertops are cluttered with precisely organized evidence of food prep—spice blends, ramekins of freshly minced garlic, onions, and herbs, an assortment of brightly-colored peppers. It’s a regular Sunday occurrence for Lexa as Raven reserves her Sundays to prep meals for her work week ahead, but Clarke looks momentarily overwhelmed by the scene that greets them. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Raven answers reflexively, only looking up to see Lexa isn’t alone after she’s replaced a carefully propped lid to whatever is simmering in the dutch oven, making the apartment smell absolutely incredible. Her face transforms immediately from mild disinterest to grinning delight. “Oh, _hey_.”

“You remember Clarke,” Lexa says as they move farther into the tiny kitchen. 

Raven pauses the sound of her podcast that had been playing through a small speaker on the kitchen counter. “Oh, I remember Clarke.” 

Lexa grinds her jaw at Raven’s unveiled enthusiasm even as Clarke offer a small wave. “Hey, nice to see you again.” 

“I’m just here to shower,” Lexa announces. “We’re on our way to the Rosebud.” 

“A shower, huh?” Raven says, still that shit-eating grin prominently displayed on her face. “What exactly have you kids been up to since I last saw you on Friday?” 

Raven’s loud bark of laughter (at her own stupid joke) completely engulfs the sound of Lexa’s exasperated _‘jesus christ’_ as she closes her eyes and silently pleads to be swallowed up by the linoleum beneath her feet. If she were quicker on her feet, she’d volley the same line of questioning right back to her roommate about Raven’s own whereabouts after the studio’s holiday party. Because she had been home for _hours_ on Saturday afternoon, not that Raven was anywhere to be found. But, the flash of embarrassment delays Lexa’s intended response, leaving the remnants of Raven’s teasing to hang between them. 

For her part, Clarke hardly reacts beyond an amused grin. 

“Oh my god, relax, dude. I like Clarke. We go way back,” Raven says with a preposterous wink, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing to Clarke with a wooden spatula. “If you don’t wifey up with this one, I just might.”

“Please shut up, Raven.” Lexa rolls her eyes, turning quickly to a giggling Clarke before making her expedient getaway into a scorching hot shower that she hopes will erase the last ninety humiliating seconds from her memory. “I’m leaving this room now,” she announces, pulling away from Clarke’s proximity even as Raven’s laughter continues to fill the kitchen. “And, I’m sorry, in advance, for whatever you’re about to be subjected to.”

Clarke only joins in with Raven’s laughter, pushing her palms to Lexa’s abdomen until she stumbles backwards by a pace or two. “I already told you: I’ll be fine. And, hurry up—you promised me fried chicken and waffles, and I’m _starving_.” 

:::

When Lexa emerges from her bedroom, no more than eleven minutes later, Clarke has found a seat at the breakfast counter and appears to be eating a plate of eggs. Lexa had hastily showered and dressed, not even making time to blow dry her hair, opting instead to weave her damp hair into a braid. 

“I was gone for less than fifteen minutes,” she says upon entering. She comes to stand beside Clarke’s stool, eyeing her half-eaten plate of eggs. 

Raven, visibly offended, scoffs. “As if I would ever let someone sit in my kitchen for more than sixty seconds without feeding them.” 

“Also, you should probably know that I’ve never turned down a plate of food in my life,” Clarke adds before taking another bite of her eggs. 

“So, saying yes to brunch with me this morning was merely reflexive and not genuine interest?” 

Clarke snakes an arm around Lexa’s back and smiles up at her. “Oh no, I am genuinely interested … in the fried chicken.” 

Lexa narrows her eyes and attempts an actual scowl while watching as Clarke is humored by the effects of her joke. She hugs Lexa closer even as they remain in a standoff of facial expressions, Lexa losing ground rapidly to Clarke’s persistent smile, until Raven groans dramatically. 

“Okay, you guys are being disgustingly cute and ruining the vibe in my kitchen—you can get out of here now,” she grumbles, returning her attention to the busy stovetop. 

With years of ignoring Raven’s antics under her belt, Lexa’s focus remains on Clarke. “You ready?” 

She nods to Lexa’s ask and grabs her empty plate as she stands. “Thanks again for the eggs. They were excellent.” 

Raven practically gawks as Clarke slips seamlessly around her in a cramped space, depositing her dish to the sink and rinsing it briefly before returning to Lexa’s side. 

“She consumes, she compliments, she cleans—I’m not kidding, Lexa: I will get down on one knee right now.” 

“You are so weird. I have no idea why we’re friends,” Lexa tells her as she and Clarke slip back into their shoes and coats.

:::

“Would you rather: never have coffee again or … never have sex again?” 

Lexa laughs and looks away out of the frosted window beside their booth. When she returns her gaze, Clarke is grinning eagerly. She reaches for her cup of coffee and takes a sip while holding Lexa’s eye as if to underscore the question. The converted lunch car diner, an historic city staple for decades, is teeming with patrons, but Lexa’s focus has narrowed to the booth she shares with Clarke. An illusion of isolation—alone in their private conversation. 

Their food has come and gone, though Clarke has ordered a slice of banana cream pie to go with their coffees, at Lexa’s urging. 

“You know, if you would have posed this question to me three days ago,” Lexa insinuates and watches the most satisfying dawn of recognition flash across Clarke’s eyes. 

“I hate to ask how bad the sex was before this weekend that you’d consider giving it up _forever_ in favor of your daily caffeine fix.”

“Not necessarily bad. Just … unmemorable, mostly. Dispensable. Definitely not worth giving up coffee.” 

“As opposed to what you and I have been doing since Friday?” The flirtatious lilt to Clarke’s voice, the way she leans into the table, arches one eyebrow, and angles her head just so, is practically unbearable. 

Lexa maintains eye contact while fighting to also maintain composure. “Noteworthy. To say the least.” 

Clarke’s eyes are practically gleaming with delight as she says, “Good to know.” 

“Let’s just say, I’ve been trying to figure out how to discreetly ask if you’ve given further consideration to Anya’s offer.” 

“Oh. You mean staying in Boston full time?” Clarke’s surprise quickly gives way to another smile. “You know about that, huh?” 

“Anya might have casually mentioned something about it on Friday.” 

“Right. Completely coincidental.” 

“Right.” 

“And, now what? You’re hoping I’ll accept the offer so that we can continue having a lot more of that _noteworthy_ sex?” 

Lexa has to look away again as she laughs, her face heating at Clarke’s blatant reduction of her curiosity. She’s not entirely wrong, but Lexa feels the need to clarify that her interest in Clarke staying put isn’t just about the notion of sex. 

“I want you to join the studio full time because I think you’re talented and driven, and you possess a strand of creativity that is magnetic. Your work with our team this year and the projects you’ve contributed to have been inspiring in ways I didn’t expect. And, that’s not just because I—the whole team, I think, would agree.” 

Clarke looks fully stunned by Lexa’s honesty, perhaps not expecting the change in tone from playful innuendo to genuine admiration. “Wow.”

“Of course, the recent discovery of extremely memorable sex with you is also of acute interest.”

Clarke laughs so openly that two women sitting at the bar counter beside them briefly swivel in their seats to take note. Lexa has enjoyed every, solitary minute of her time with Clarke over this whirlwind weekend, but moments like these have quickly become her favorite. Hearing the bright notes of Clarke’s laughter, knowing she is the cause of it, is like striking a match. A thrill of surprise every time the flame bursts to life. Like possessing a superpower, like conjuring fire. 

Suddenly, all Lexa can think about at the moment is dragging Clarke back to her apartment, locking her bedroom door, and getting back to—

“Can I get either of you some more coffee?” 

The sudden presence of their server startles Lexa so violently from her salacious daydream that her elbows nearly slip off the edge of the table. Clarke is holding a fork in her direction, a knowing smirk on her lips that implies she has clued into Lexa’s wandering thoughts, while the monstrous piece of homemade pie (which Lexa hadn’t even noticed) sits between them. 

“I think we’re all set,” Clarke answers as Lexa feebly accepts the fork and lowers her head with a bashful smile. “Thank you.” 

:::

“That food was amazing. You did not undersell. And, thank you, again, for picking up the bill.” 

With Lexa’s apartment centrally located in Davis Square, she and Clarke had walked to the Rosebud for brunch and have since begun their return stroll where Clarke plans to call a car to take her home. Their pace is leisurely, labored perhaps by the thick slice of pie and decadent plates of food; regardless the cause, they walk unhurried despite the brisk temperatures. The winter sun is bright, and Lexa feels immeasurably content, perfectly happy to withstand the cold if it means more time spent with Clarke. 

Clarke smiles over at her and Lexa returns it. “You paid for falafel,” she answers. “It was my turn.” 

“I was trying so hard to drop hints that night. Inviting you to have dinner. _Paying_ for dinner.” Clarke bumps their shoulders together, knocking Lexa slightly off course. “Not that you noticed.” 

“I tried to tell you from the get-go,” Lexa grins, again falling into step with Clarke. “I’ve been known to act like an idiot at times.” 

“Well, I’d say you’ve made significant strides in the past two days.” 

“Give it time,” Lexa laughs. 

She doesn’t realize Clarke has slowed until she’s at least two paces ahead. 

“I’d like to,” Clarke says once Lexa has stopped and turns to face her on the empty sidewalk. They haven’t had much snow yet—just the one storm, really—but their boots scuff against the salt that has turned the cement walkway dusty shades of lighter greys. 

She’s trying to parse the meaning while still smiling, even if Clarke’s expression has slipped into something more serious, uncertain. “What?” 

“I mean, I’d like to give this— _us_ —more time.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like it if this weren’t a one-off, or, ya know, a two-off, I guess. Technically. I’ve just been thinking: this is nice. Hanging out, you know, like this.” 

Clarke is visibly nervous all of a sudden, even rambling a little, and Lexa doesn’t have a clue what to do with this version of her: apprehensive, unsure, completely adorable. 

On instinct, she steps forward and inclines her head to capture Clarke’s mouth. If it takes her by surprise, she doesn’t show it, reciprocating instantly, pulling Lexa in slowly by the collar of her jacket. 

When they break the kiss, Lexa hardly moves at all. Her forehead tips against Clarke’s so that their breathing has mingled into a single cloud of frozen air. There’s no easy way to ask Clarke what exactly she means by giving them time. Lexa’s not sure how to inquire about her life in New York, about the massive decision looming over them for Clarke to accept Anya’s offer and take root at Trikru. Only time will tell if she will stay in Boston or return to her previous life, leaving Lexa behind. 

At the moment, she isn’t particularly focused on anything but the here and now—Clarke’s warmth, her subtle fragrance, and the way Lexa’s heart thrums at the notion that they are pursuing each other in equal measure. 

“I was actually going to ask you to come back to my apartment for a bit,” she admits into the scant space. “But, I didn’t want to seem clingy.” 

“You avoided hanging out with me for months,” Clarke laughs. “I’d sort of enjoy you being a little clingy.” 

“Not sick of me yet?”

Clarke responds in the best way and kisses her soundly, leaving her breathless. Clarke tows a line of indecency that reminds Lexa of the kisses they’d shared that first night on the rooftop. The difference now is her knowledge of what comes next, an explicit understanding of the infinite possibilities that follow this type of kiss. 

“So, do you want to—” Lexa expels her ask in a rush of urgency, but Clarke doesn’t even let her finish. 

“Yeah.” 

Clarke stays the afternoon, and when they emerge again from Lexa’s bedroom after hours of both napping and decisively _not_ napping, the sun has set and Raven has returned to the apartment from running her weekend errands. She promptly peer-pressures Clarke into stay for dinner— 

_“Shut up, you’re staying. Lexa and I are incredibly bored by each other, and I’m hoping she’ll be more fun with you around.”_

—and because she had spent the first half of her day working tirelessly in the kitchen, Raven insists they order in. 

_“I’m paying for takeout, so order whatever you want. And, don’t try to fight me on it—I probably exceed your combined salaries by an embarrassing degree.”_

Clarke doesn’t argue on either count, willingly agreeing to stay with a good-natured laugh, and Lexa tries to temper the way her chest expands at seeing Clarke in her apartment. The three of them sit around in comfy clothes—Clarke in borrowed sweats and a soft tee shirt—sharing two orders of smoky wings and cartons of udon and laughing together as if they’ve sustained decades of friendship. Lexa is astounded that her life, virtually unchanged, could appear so remarkably different, simply by having Clarke in it. 

:::

“How awkward do you anticipate tomorrow is going to be?” 

Clarke is back in her own clothes, jacket zipped and boots laced as she leans against the apartment’s front door, having finally scheduled a car to take her home. Raven has disappeared into the bathroom for a well-timed shower that gives them their privacy in the semi-dark kitchen. 

“Why would it be awkward?” 

Lexa stands close enough that she is lightly pressing Clarke against the door, thighs and hips aligned, her hands resting on Clarke’s hips while wearing a look of confusion. Clarke’s mouth drops open to rebuke her for being obtuse until Lexa cracks a smile.

“Just kidding.” 

For penance at playing dumb, Clarke pokes her in the stomach. “So, you’re not worried about being back in the office together after this weekend?” 

Lexa shrugs. Her eyes have zeroed in on Clarke’s lips and she wonders if kissing instead of talking would be a better use of their time. “Not particularly.”

She does kiss Clarke then, just a slow movement of lips, sealing a memory of the past 48 hours together. Tomorrow, they’ll be forced to confront reality—meetings and deadlines and the high-energy bustle of the studio. Coworkers. Creative teams. _Anya_. This pocket of quiet intimacy has an expiration, and Lexa intends to savor it. 

“I commend your confidence, Woods,” Clarke tells her as they break the kiss. 

“Awkward or not, we’re both mostly functioning adults. I think we’ll survive.” 

“Okay. Yeah.” Clarke is nodding distractedly, already angling to resume their kiss. Perhaps she feels their time slipping away as well. 

“You know, you never did answer my question.” 

Clarke blinks slowly at the comment, clearly interrupted from her intentions to reconnect with Lexa’s mouth. “Which question?” 

“About Trikru.” Lexa smiles at the way Clarke’s gaze hasn’t deviated from the movement of her lips as she speaks. “Anya’s offer.” 

“I would say that I’m … strongly considering it.” The scant distance between them vanishes as Clarke presses her lips to Lexa’s mouth before she can respond. It feels like an answer in itself. 

Clarke’s buzzing phone separates them for good a short time later: a notification that her car is a minute away from Lexa’s apartment. Lexa takes a step backwards as Clarke sighs, “I should head down.” 

“Text me when you get home?” 

A smile appears that Lexa will go to bed still thinking about. A final bussing of Clarke’s lips to the side of her head before she opens the door. “I will.” 

Clarke does her one better and texts from the Lyft just minutes later: _You will never believe the amazing weekend I just had_

Lexa smiles into her phone. _Oh yeah? Care to expound?_

She spends the next two hours puttering around the apartment, getting ready for bed, and texting with Clarke. 

As it turns out, they are both guilty of being a little clingy.

She falls into bed later that night, surrounded by new memories of Clarke’s indelible presence. Sheets that had once been wrapped around Clarke’s naked body. The shirt and pants she had borrowed laid neatly on Lexa’s desk. She drifts to sleep not thinking of the following morning or the coming weeks of work, too consumed by replaying intangible moments of the past two days. 

:::

Everything at work on Monday is exactly the same as always—the weekly, full staff morning meeting, the follow-up meetings between Lexa and her fellow producers, the various creative teams giving project briefings, even a momentary encounter with Anya, during which she never strays from the topic of studio business. 

(Lexa has never explicitly confronted Anya on what she assumes to be an ongoing dalliance with Raven and wonders if maybe Anya has done her the same courtesy. In any case, she counts herself inordinately lucky to have evaded a brutally embarrassing lashing from an old friend and escapes to the relative safety of her office as quickly as possible.) 

By the time Lexa is enjoying a late lunch at her desk, she has been lulled into the familiarity of her routines. Smiling at Clarke whenever they cross paths, stealing glances across conference tables as she might on any other day, but otherwise wholly uneventful. 

Everything at work on Monday is completely without incident until Clarke appears in her doorway, quietly rapping her knuckles to the open door. “Hey.” 

Lexa looks up from her salad and the tempered pace of her workday rockets into hyperdrive. 

She had forgotten what it is like to be alone in Clarke’s company, particularly in the confines of her modest office. One raspy word shatters the peaceful silence, and Lexa’s heartbeat trips into breakneck speeds. 

“Hi.” 

It’s as much of an invitation as Clarke is going to get, because apparently Lexa is back to being completely useless in the span of twelve hours.

Feeling over-confident at their transition from weekend sex mates to Monday afternoon coworkers, Lexa had naively overlooked major barriers. 

Like the concept of being confronted with Clarke’s smile. 

Or, Clarke’s high-waisted jeans and plain white tee shirt with the tantalizing vee neck. 

Or, Clarke’s penetrating gaze. 

In short: Clarke’s general presence that quickly fills up the entire room. 

“I’m headed out to grab food. I was going to see if you—but, I guess you’ve already eaten.” Clarke gestures to the nearly empty box of salad greens with a smile, flopping inelegantly into one of the black leather chairs that faces Lexa’s desk. 

“Oh. Yeah, I had a quick break in meetings and decided to run out while I had the chance.” It never occurred to her to include Clarke in her lunch plans, though clearly she had been on Clarke’s mind; she wonders if this is yet another unforeseen shift in their established dynamic. “Sorry, I should have—”

Clarke brushes off the apology with a wave of her hand. “No, it’s fine.” She slouches in her chair a moment later, running her fingers through her hair with an audible groan. “Today has been insane.” 

“Yeah,” Lexa agrees, studiously ignoring the connections her brain now makes with the causes of Clarke’s groans, exhaustion or otherwise. “The week before Trikru’s holiday break is always pretty intense.” 

In a week’s time, Anya will close studio hours—halting new projects for the ten or so days between Christmas Eve and the new year—giving the entire staff a much-needed respite from the grueling end-of-year haul. 

“I don’t even want to look at my calendar for the next four days.” 

“What does your day look like tomorrow?” 

“You did hear me just say I’d rather not think about my schedule, right?” Clarke smiles at her teasingly, if not also legitimately exasperated by Lexa’s inquiry.

“I just meant, maybe we could get lunch. Tomorrow. Or another day this week, for that matter.” Lexa fiddles with the cardboard flaps of her salad box. “If you thought you’d have time.” 

Clarke looks delighted at the suggestion. “I’ll make time.” 

:::

On Tuesday, they order burritos and eat at the desk in Lexa’s office, sharing a bag of still-warm tortilla chips and sampling each of the six types of homemade salsa Clarke had insisted on ordering. 

On Wednesday, they take the elevator to the ground floor and order pork belly sandwiches at the cafe where Lexa gets coffee every morning. They sit on stools along a high counter that faces the water, talking about their various projects, and watching the choppy, blue-grey river under a clouded, winter sky. 

Thursday proves too hectic for an actual mid work meet-up, but Lexa sends a bold text around lunchtime instead, telling Clarke: _‘I wish I were looking at your smile right now instead of listening to this client’s bland suggestions.'_ Clarke somehow manages to find her boarding an empty elevator not two hours later, and proceeds to kiss her against the back wall of the lift for the entire ride to the eighth floor. Just before the warning ding sounds of doors sliding open to their office, Clarke pulls back, runs her thumb across Lexa’s lower lip, and exhales through a smile. “You look incredible today.” 

It is the best forty seconds of her entire week. 

On Friday, Clarke’s final day in the office before the holidays, they don’t manage to find time for lunch until almost 4pm when Clarke yet again appears at the doorway of Lexa’s office. 

She’s got a bag of unidentified takeaway looped around one finger and a tray of drinks in her other hand. “Hungry?” 

Partway through their lobster rolls, neither of them having said much of anything, Lexa finally exhales and leans back into her chair. “I’ve been so stressed about meeting this deadline, I didn’t realize I was actually famished.” 

Clarke squints in sympathy from across the small, round side table Lexa had set between them, like a makeshift café table, a beer battered onion ring pinched between her fingers. “Think you’ll be here late?” 

“I’m hoping to leave by seven. Eight at the latest, depending on how long it takes Octavia to finish coding. You?” 

“Just waiting on Anya to approve a few things, and then it’s home to pack.” 

Oh right: the imminent departure. 

Hurtling through the workweek to meet encroaching deadlines had made it easy to forget Clarke would be gone for several days to spend the holidays with her father. 

“You leave tomorrow?” Lexa attempts a casual tone, indifferent to Clarke’s travel plans that will carry her to the other side of the country in less than twenty-four hours. 

Time away from the demands of her job can’t happen soon enough; but, time away from work also means extended time apart from Clarke, and Lexa feels a jittery anxiety at the prospect. 

“Yeah,” Clarke answers around the distinct crunch of an onion ring. “I fly out in the morning.” She licks a rogue drop of ketchup from the corner of her mouth, and the sight of it has Lexa going for broke in her desperation to see as much of Clarke as possible. 

“You know, I could drop you at the airport. If you’d like.” 

Clarke’s head cocks to one side in confusion. “You have a car? But, you take the T to work every day.” 

“Have you ever tried to find parking in this city?” 

“Okay, point taken.” Clarke takes a long sip of her lemonade, contemplating with her lips pursed in thought around the striped paper straw of her drink. “So, you’re offering me a ride to Logan in this mysterious car that you’ve never before mentioned?”

“My car is perfectly ordinary, Clarke. Absolutely no mystery whatsoever,” Lexa laughs. “But, yes, the offer stands.” 

“You know, my flight is sort of early.”

“I am actually quite capable of waking to an alarm. Believe it or not, sleeping until noon on Saturdays is not a regular occurrence for me.” 

It’s the first time all week that either of them has made reference to their dalliance the weekend prior, and Lexa senses the atmosphere in the room shift from friendly, casual colleagues sharing their lunch hour to something altogether different. The air between them sparks like charged particles as Clarke watches her carefully. 

A demanding and rigorous work week had made any chance for sleepovers exempt. Lexa often toiled late at the office only to bring projects home, hunched over her desk at the apartment to work late into the night. It was hard to be distracted by the prospect of sex when she could hardly see beyond the glow of her monitor screen. But now that she’s made reference—

Clarke clears her throat and averts her eyes with a contained smile, looking for all intents as if she’s begun to envision precisely what had precipitated their late-morning wake up. 

“Right, well. If you’re genuinely offering to wake up early on your day off and drive me to the airport, then it probably makes more sense for you to stay over.” She looks up with a smirk to find Lexa already fighting a grin of her own. “Logistically.” 

“Sure, yeah,” Lexa readily agrees. “It’s a very practical suggestion.” Never mind the flare of excitement that bursts to life at the base of her spine, Lexa maintains her composure. “I’ll call you when I’m done here?”

Clarke smiles fully now, cheeks rosy and eyes dancing with possibility. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

::: 

“Try not to miss me too much.”

They’re parked along the curb at Logan’s terminal C, and Clarke is leaned over the center console of Lexa’s front seat because they’ve been making out for the past ten minutes like lovestruck teenagers being forced apart by the summer holiday. 

“I can’t imagine I’ll think of you very much at all.” 

Clarke smiles into their next kiss, humming her disbelief against Lexa’s mouth. “Sure you won’t.” 

“Is that why you asked me to sleep over last night? To provide me with some parting memories?” 

“Did it work?” Clarke asks with a grin. 

She likes to run her fingers along Lexa’s lips in the aftermath of their kisses—an index finger along the top ridge, the broad pad of her thumb beneath her plump bottom lip. An intimate little gesture that Lexa has convinced herself holds meaning. As if Clarke is memorizing the shape of her mouth. She’s an artist, after all, visual and tactile, making such romanticized presumptions seem plausible.

“Significantly.” 

Clarke seems pleased by Lexa’s honesty, enough to kiss her again—so slowly, intentionally drawn out into languid movements of lips and tongue. She pulls away at a distance now, separating all points of contact except for her left hand, which toys with the sleeve of Lexa’s winter coat. 

“Okay, I have to get out of this car now.” 

“Go ahead,” Lexa tells her. “No one is keeping you.” 

“I beg to differ.” Clarke arches her brow like a challenge, and Lexa twists her hand to wind their fingers together. Another insignificant gesture that weighs like a stone when Clarke’s gaze flicks down to their joined hands against the console then back up to meet Lexa’s eye. 

“Text me when you land, okay?” 

Clarke nods, reluctantly detangling their fingers to zip her coat and pull on her hat. “Thanks again for dropping me off. I know it’s a pain.” 

“I offered,” Lexa reminds her. “Do you want me to grab your suitcase out of the trunk?” 

“No, no, I’ve got it. Stay in here where it’s warm.” 

Still, she doesn’t make any effort to move, the two of them holding a steady gaze across which Lexa imagines they are both recalling the previous hours, holed up in Clarke’s tiny apartment bedroom. The way Clarke had grasped and clawed and encouraged, asking for more again and again. The way Lexa had chased her own release with reckless abandon and allowed Clarke to witness her uninhibited desperation. Her face begins to heat at the mere memory of it, and she has to exhale to keep her voice steady. 

“Okay, you really need to get out of here, or I’m driving away with or without you still in the car,” Lexa threatens with a laugh. 

“Wow. I am giving you a scathing Lyft review once I’m on the plane for this abhorrent service.” Before Lexa can respond with more than a lingering smile, Clarke juts across the console one last time to lay a smacking kiss to her cheek. A second kiss—intentionally slow and soft—is pressed against her lips. She is sealing some unnamed thing between them, a wordless decision they’ve made together without speaking it aloud. 

And then, Clarke is pulling away for good and unlatching the passenger door. A quiet, “Bye,” is directed at Lexa before she slips out of the car entirely. 

Lexa inhales a breath of cold air that has quickly infiltrated their cocoon of warmth. “Bye.” 

She waits until Clarke has crossed over the pedestrian walk and disappeared into the sliding glass doors of the terminal before pulling away from the curb. Her daydreams during the short drive back to Somerville are inundated with Clarke’s touches, the warmth of their skin pressed together, and the sound of their combined laughter. 

Earlier that morning, Lexa had sat patiently on the bed while Clarke readied herself for travel, watching her perfunctory routines with a kind of voyeuristic wonder. She felt as if she were being granted a look behind the curtain, peering into Clarke’s life in a way that felt significantly personal. Clarke’s hair was brushed and dried, make-up etched around her eyes, and a light fragrance applied—the lingering scent of which now clings to Lexa’s shirt collar. 

It had been a quietly intimate morning, preceded by yet another night of lost inhibitions and thrilling explorations into their physical chemistry. A week without seeing Clarke lies ahead of her, and Lexa’s only downfall, in her haze of sex-fueled serotonin, is the creeping fear that the interim will feel more like seven years rather than the relatively short span of seven days. 

:::

“Okay, that’s it—we’re two beers in, and I’ve legitimately exhausted every ounce of self-control not to badger you for details about your new girlfriend. It’s time for you to spill.” 

Lexa and Raven have taken up a favorite corner at their local watering hole—the one where the bartenders are friendly without being obtrusive, calling them by name and suggesting new beers on tap, sometimes gossiping about other patrons, but otherwise leaving them alone. Lexa grins around another sip of her IPA at Raven’s unveiled curiosity, the absolute urgency in her demand for information. 

It’s just two days after Christmas and she and Raven have spent the holiday at her childhood home in Roxbury, where Raven’s mother and sister now live, caring for her abuela. Lexa’s holidays, spent apart from her own family, are moments woven together with her found family: traditions with Anya, and separately, Raven. 

She has always loved the comfort of Raven’s family home. Its well-versed history, the evidence of the years engrained in its bones—worn down floorboards that creak as you walk; faded paint around the glass cabinet pulls in the kitchen; bedroom curtains that Raven’s great-grandmother had embroidered by hand. Their visit had been two solid days—Christmas day and the day after—of unrivaled homemade food, endless drink, and plenty of extended family affection. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Right. Sorry, let me rephrase.” Raven’s audible _thwap_ against Lexa’s bicep actually catches her completely off guard, and she winces, despite the contact not being all that aggressive. 

Raven, apparently, was not handed down her family’s strand of affectionate DNA. 

“Fine, jesus.” Lexa makes a show of rubbing her arm. “What is it that you’re so violently interested in knowing exactly?” 

“Have you talked to her since she flew home?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes once? Or, yes, every waking minute of the past week?” 

“Somewhere between the two. Often, but not with obsessive regularity.”

Raven seems to mull the response with her concentrated scowl. “And, when does she fly back to Boston?”

“Tomorrow. Late. Nine-thirty or something.” 

“ _‘Or something.’_ ” Raven eyes her with amused skepticism. “You have the entirety of her flight info committed to memory, don’t you?” 

“I'm picking her up from the airport so, yes, knowing her flight details seemed like due diligence.” 

“Oh my god, she’s totally your girlfriend.” 

“We’re nowhere near that, thanks. But, Clarke would make an excellent girlfriend.” 

Raven, for her part, doesn’t react more than a raise of her brow at Lexa’s candid response. 

“She’s funny, a brilliant artist, great storyteller,” Lexa continues. 

“Great storyteller?” 

“Yeah, you know—captivating. Some people tell stories and you’re thinking: god, when will this be over? Clarke speaks about the most random things, and I could listen to her for hours.” 

“Gross.” 

Lexa smiles, unbothered by Raven’s feigned disgust. “What I’m saying is, the past two weeks have been filled with some of the most intensely satisfying—”

“Orgasms. _Orgasms_. Say orgasms.” 

“—conversations—”

“Godammit, Lexa.”

“—interspersed with some of the best orgasms I’ve ever had in my life.” 

Raven cackles, oddly gratified by the current success of Lexa’s sex life. She grins into the last sip of her beer. “Clarke is awesome. I’m happy for you,” she says, lightly clinking her empty pint against Lexa’s. 

“She is. Thanks. I can’t say she’s necessarily girlfriend material with the notion of her moving back to New York still undecided, though.”

Raven winces sympathetically. “Yeah. Any word on that?” 

“No. And the imminent prospect of her leaving is horrible. I don’t think I’ve had this kind of chemistry with someone in ages, if ever.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it—the sex is mind-blowing.”

“I wasn’t talking about _sexual_ chemistry specifically, although now that you mention it …” Lexa tilts her head in consideration and Raven groans. 

“Again: _gross_.”

“Sorry, weren’t you the one harassing me for intel not ten minutes ago?” Lexa squares herself in Raven’s direction and folds her hands together. “Would you prefer we discuss your dating life instead?” 

Raven’s response is bored, knee-jerk denial. “I don’t date.” 

“Never?”

“Advancing my career supersedes all other interests. You know this. I literally don’t have time to date.” 

“You know who you sound like? Anya.” 

“Your boss?” 

Lexa doesn’t back off, narrowing her gaze and crossing her arms. “Yeah. _Anya_. My boss, my mentor and longtime friend, a significant presence in my life.”

Raven shows outward signs of annoyance. “Why are you being so weird about saying her name?”

“Why are you being so weird about _not_ saying her name?”

“Fine. I remind you of Anya. So what? We’re both single-minded, driven by success, unapologetic workaholics, who kick serious ass in our respective businesses.” Raven reaches for her pint, looking as if she wishes it weren’t completely empty. “You could draw a worse comparison.” 

“Anything other shared interests that you’d care to divulge?” 

“Sorry, you guys need another round?” One of the bartenders shuffles into their corner with impeccable timing, virtually saving Raven from having to answer. 

“Yes, thanks,” Raven says, perhaps a bit too quickly as she eagerly passes off her empty pint. 

“Sure,” Lexa echoes and finishes her own beer to slide the glass closer to their bartender. 

“It’s just sex,” Raven says abruptly. 

The woman working the bar has moved farther away to refill their beers at the taps, and Lexa is left quietly stunned by Raven’s blunt statement. The level of pure shock doesn’t outwardly show, but she’d certainly not expected Raven to cave to her mild taunts so quickly. When their pint glasses have been replaced, full and frothy, and the bartender has left again without more than a kind smile, Lexa clears her throat. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay what?” 

They both reach for their drinks and take a sip. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it,” Lexa clarifies. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Raven smirks, looking more like herself than she has in the past six minutes. “Unless you’re prying for details about—”

“Gross,” Lexa winces. 

“It’s nothing more than that, dude,” Raven reiterates with a quick laugh. “Honestly, I’m not interested, for one, and neither of us has got the time for anything more than just—”

“Sex.”

Raven licks her lips after another sip. “Yep.” 

Lexa only nods in response, letting the conversation come to its natural conclusion while she and Raven enjoy a few sips of their beers in companionable silence, filled easily with the lulling sounds of a neighborhood bar in late afternoon. As she sits there, quietly processing the admission that her roommate is, in fact, sleeping with one of her oldest friends, Lexa realizes something. 

Raven’s guarded approach to her ongoing tryst with Anya has always been the unexpected element. She is perpetually outspoken, brash even, about herself. Raven is an open book on all facets of her life, rarely reticent, especially with Lexa. That she is currently involved (in some way) with a significant person in Lexa’s life, and thus more cautious with sharing information, wouldn’t be strange if it were anyone else. 

But, Lexa can’t shake the feeling that Raven’s explanation isn’t the entire story. Perhaps her roommate doth protest too much. 

“Dude, your phone’s blowing up.” 

At the sound of Raven’s voice, Lexa’s attention snaps to her phone with an imperceptible jolt of excitement that it could be Clarke, whom she hasn’t heard from all day. 

“Made ya look.” Raven cackles and Lexa’s unamused scowl does little to deter her from laughing harder. 

Lexa punches her in the arm for good measure. 

:::

Clarke returns to Boston late at night on December 28, her flight delayed by a forecast of inclimate weather that turns out to be nothing but a dusting of snow flurries along the runways. 

As Lexa drums her fingers against the steering wheel, eyes catching on the movement of every person exiting the sliding doors, the sheer amount of nervous anticipation coursing through her makes the time of night—now three hours past Clarke’s scheduled arrival—completely irrelevant. 

Clarke’s feeble protests about the time change and inconveniencing Lexa further had fallen on deaf ears, and even despite the rushed embrace beside her car, arms wrapped tightly but cut short by the painfully cold wind that whips around them, Lexa is convinced she’s made the right decision. 

Clarke buckles into the passenger seat moments later, instantly babbling away about her travel, and Lexa can’t wipe the smile from her lips. 

Two streets away from Clarke’s apartment, she says, “You’re sleeping over, right?” 

And Lexa, with presumptuous intention, responds: “ _Sleeping_?”

Clarke’s laughter fills the car all the way to the parking garage. 

Shared, nervous uncertainty suddenly cloaks them in the elevator, a week’s worth of distance colliding with unspoken desires to reconnect. 

“I need to unwind a bit—do you want a drink?” Clarke asks once they’re inside her darkened apartment, and she’s tossing her keys onto the coffee table and switching on lights. 

The sharp pop and hiss of beer cans opening breaks the hushed calm in Clarke’s kitchen, the both of them making eye contact in fleeting intervals as they sip. 

It’s well after midnight before she’s tasting Clarke’s lips and tongue—a kiss Lexa’s spent the past hour obsessing over, imagining in varying scenarios and intricate detail.

If she sighs at that first touch, if her entire body slackens from the proximity, if she senses a similar response in Clarke, a desperation etched into the lines of her face, then perhaps the week apart was worth the wait. 

“Did you miss me or something?” Clarke smiles, her commentary clearly a direct taunt at Lexa’s enthusiasm as they lay horizontal on the sofa, layers of clothing discarded and more skin revealing more opportunity for reacquaintance.

Breathing words into Clarke’s neck, Lexa feigns indifference. “Not particularly.” 

“Good.”

“Why?” 

“Because we decided beforehand you weren’t going to do that.” 

“Right,” Lexa smiles while hovering above Clarke’s flushed chest and pink cheeks.

“Let’s go in the bedroom—” an abrupt suggestion which Clarke pants as more of a plea “—so I can show you what I was thinking about during the entire plane ride here.” 

They do not topple over completely as Lexa scrambles to hoist Clarke from the sofa, but they do stumble by a few paces until Lexa catches her balance and redirects them, with fervor, towards the bedroom doorway. 

:::

“So, I have a meeting with Anya tomorrow morning.” 

Lexa looks up from the news feed she’s been scrolling on her phone. They’re eating bowls of cereal at an extremely petite table, square and wooden and shoved up against the only window in Clarke’s tiny kitchen. Clarke is eyeing her with no small amount of calculation as she awaits Lexa’s response. 

“Yeah?” For all that she keeps her tone measured, Lexa’s heart beats wildly. 

Clarke doesn’t continue speaking right away, but Lexa can see the way her lips shift to resist a slow smile. By an unspoken agreement, they’ve avoided the topic of Anya’s offer for almost two weeks. Lowkey New Year’s celebrations (and the hangovers that invariably followed) have come and gone; despite a return to their busy work schedules and late night creative projects, time spent together outside of the studio has fit snugly into an evolving routine. No matter the stretch of time that Lexa is granted with Clarke, she feels immeasurably grateful for it. 

“Anything of particular interest you plan to discuss?” she finally asks when the swooping anticipation in her belly proves too distracting for continued silence. 

“I’m going to accept it.” 

The words seem to take shape after Clarke speaks, hovering over the small table, like visible particles in the air between them. Through her shallow breathing and racing thoughts, Lexa can feel her own expression shifting, a lawless tug to the corners of her mouth that she can’t control. 

“You’re staying.” 

She tries to make the words sound definitive and assured, but there is the fragile timbre of uncertain hope woven through Lexa’s voice that reveals just how much she had longed for this outcome. 

“I would have to be an idiot not to accept, right?” Clarke’s sudden shift to something light and glib, as she mindlessly stirs her spoon around the remaining cereal floating in her bowl, allows Lexa to exhale. “A position like this at Trikru—working with Anya and the rest of the team—is undeniably one of the most coveted in the business right now.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” 

“I can’t say that I won’t miss New York, or that I’ll never go back at some point, but Boston feels like a good fit for me right now.” 

“Can’t argue with you there either.” 

“Is this the extent of your reaction?” Clarke laughs. “Just measured agreement with me on everything I say?” 

Lexa’s growing grin breaks into an actual smile. “I’m excited for you. And, happy. It’s really good news, Clarke.” 

Clarke continues to look dissatisfied, lips pursed and gaze expectant. She crosses her arms along her chest. “And?”

With a laugh, Lexa pushes her bowl away and angles herself towards Clarke. “How badly are you expecting me to embarrass myself right now?” 

In two swift movements, Clarke is crawling astride her lap, arms loosely wrapped around her neck so that her elbows rest on the tops of Lexa’s shoulders. She kisses below Lexa’s ear and then the hinge of her jaw. “Really badly. Like, _really_ badly. Don’t hold back.” 

Lexa trails her fingers up the length of Clarke’s thighs, exhaling another short laugh. She toys with the loose hem of her sleep shirt and avoids eye contact—a certifiable feat with Clarke’s face mere inches from her own. 

“Okay, fine. I’m incredibly relieved,” she sighs, hands slipping beneath thin cotton to touch the soft, warm skin of Clarke’s stomach. “I’ve been mentally preparing myself for weekend train rides and depressing, late night video calls, and really lonely work lunches.” Lexa can feel the pressure of Clarke’s quiet laughter against her fingertips. 

Heard aloud, the admissions are mildly humiliating until Clarke leans into her, face nestled into the crook of Lexa’s neck and shoulder where she places a succession of warm kisses against Lexa’s skin. It isn’t long before inconsequential breaths of touch turn into something more eager, and soon they are chasing a mutual release with dextrous fingers and slick mouths. 

In the aftermath, breakfast long forgotten and clothes misplaced, a soft knitted throw covers them both as they lie on the sofa in front of the TV that neither of them is actually watching. The heating is cranked, and the sun is always brightest in this room of Clarke’s apartment, creating a cozy sort of Sunday comfort. Lexa could easily dose if her eyes drift shut for much longer. 

Clarke’s voice, too, is drowsy when she says. “I would have missed you too, you know.” 

Lexa flexes her arms around Clarke’s back just once. “You didn’t actually base your decision on that, did you?” 

“No, you absolute narcissist.” Clarke’s laughter tickles the bare skin of Lexa’s chest and she shifts their positioning so that Clarke lifts her head to catch her eye. She pecks the underside of Lexa’s chin. “But, it’s a nice perk.” 

Lexa doesn’t like making predictions for the new year based on singular events, but this—cradling Clarke against her, wrapped up in their warmth, cocooned and content. This is a pretty great start. 

:::

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to my salty beta who, among other things, never minces words about my writing habits as proven by this text conversation:
> 
> Me: *explains how I felt compelled to write more from this AU*
> 
> Orange: I think you're the one who said you could have kept adding more but decided just to end it  
> Orange: And I was the one that said, well you always can  
> Orange: Seeing as how all you did was three paragraphs of saying they were hooking up
> 
> Me: *sends several cry-laughing emojis*  
> Me: this is frighteningly accurate
> 
> Orange: Oh I know


End file.
